


Aventine

by dtkrushnics



Category: Elementary AU - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, DCBB 2014, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, M/M, Mention of substance abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 75,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dtkrushnics/pseuds/dtkrushnics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester, surgeon turned sober companion, has been assigned his new client - the brilliant, if standoffish, Castiel Novak - for the next six weeks. What he expects is late night searches for needles and booze, playing chaperone to sobriety meetings, maybe the occasional stern talk or two. Instead, he finds himself working with Castiel for the New York Police Department. Feverishly helping to solve the case of the elusive M, an as-good-as-they-get serial killer who seems to be following Castiel around the globe, Dean and Castiel find themselves trapped in a cat and mouse game where the consequence of not being quick enough could be deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had rained. That heavy, sticky sort of rain that clings invisibly to the air long after the torrent ceases, that saturates the atmosphere with substantial expectancy, the sense that the universe is telling all of the beings in this world, _“Something important happens today. Pay attention, because something important happens today.”_ The chilly New York streets are lined with puddles and piles of ashy snow where the rain had turned to flurry in the secret freezing hours of the night. A quiet wind brushes at the naked branches of trees, which reach up to call the sun forth over the horizon for a new day.

It is when that sun is just peeking over the bay that an alarm clock sounds. A man toes his feet into running shoes, wraps himself up in two scarves (and a hat, just to be safe), opens and closes a door, jogs down the street.

He weaves his way down a slowly swelling Manhattan avenue, past hurried businesspeople still blinking last night’s dreams out of their eyes, past early-morning dogwalkers who’ve misbuttoned their shirts.

He is at the harbor, pink-cheeked and huffing through the icicles forming in his lungs, when his phone rings. He shakes out his burning legs while he fishes it out of his pocket.

“Winchester,” is his salutation of choice.

So it begins.

ℵ

“He _escaped_?” Dean scoffs into the phone an hour later, newly washed and dressed, making his way down a cobblestone sidewalk. “He _did_ know he was getting let out today, right?”

The voice at the other end of the line gives a sharp exclamation.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m on my way now.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll let the agency know if anything changes. Okay, bye.”

The house at which he arrives is singularly unremarkable. It’s a brownstone building, improperly large for a single inhabitant, with faded walls and the carved, sweeping frames of New York’s most antique. Dean peers in through the glass double doors and knocks.

And waits.

He spots movement inside the house, though it shows no indication of approaching to open the door. Dean’s face twists in distaste and he enters out of spite, not-quite-slamming the door behind him. He follows the subtle sounds of someone in the house to what he can only assume is the living room.

There sits a man, clad only in a pair of dark washed jeans, on an old stool. His back is to Dean – a back decorated with rather extravagant tattoos. Across his left shoulder blade is an inked wing, which is startlingly realistic and appears to Dean to be almost tangible. Down the back of his arm, the wing sheds feathers. Upon closer inspection, Dean sees that at the very base of the man’s right shoulder blade are seven tiny letters – but as Dean approaches, half to read them and half to speak, he realizes that they’re not in English. Greek, maybe. They catch Dean off guard for a moment before he remembers to open his mouth.

“Excuse me, – ”

The man shushes Dean so abruptly that he actually quiets, mouth shutting with an audible snap. He lifts his hand, and it is only then that Dean’s eyes focus on what is in front of the man – a half-finished painting of a lion, head held high above the tall grasses of the savannah. In the man’s hand is a paintbrush, which he settles against the canvas to trace a streak of gold across the lion’s cheek. He wipes the paintbrush down and stands, turning to stare at Dean expectantly.

Dean launches into the speech he’s been trained to memorize. “My name is Dean Winchester. I’ve been hired by your father to be your sober companion. He told me he was going to e-mail you about me.” The words come out stilted and unsure, but Dean still manages to dredge up a smile.

The man dips his chin and squints almost imperceptibly, but says nothing. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with the person before him.

Dean leans back against the wall, then feels it with his fingers and decides that’s probably not the best idea. He pulls his lip into his mouth, chewing at it nervously. “My job is to make the transition from your rehab experience to the routine of your everyday life as smooth as possible. So I’m gonna be living with you for the next six weeks, which means I’ll be available to you 24/7.” 

At last, the man’s face clears. “Have you ever heard of the Marquardt beauty mask, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean blinks. He opens his mouth, but for a few seconds no sound comes out. “Uh, no.”

The man’s lips twitch, as though he is amused by Dean’s answer. He steps forward, until Dean is shrinking back into the wall, horrid stickiness be damned. “Castiel Novak,” the man says, holding out a rigid hand. “Don’t get comfortable. We won’t be here long.”

ℵ

“Mr. Novak, did your father tell you about me or not?” Dean huffs, trying desperately to keep up with Castiel as he goes from room to room.

“He may have mentioned you,” Castiel answers, stooping to sit and put on a shoe. “Although it’s been years since I’ve listened to anything he has to say.”

Dean purses his lips. He looks down at the top of Castiel’s head and feels a burning desire to kick it around a little. “Mind telling me why you escaped from your rehab facility the same day you were supposed to be released?”

Castiel pauses. He lifts his head and the sun streaming in through the opposite window catches the slicing blue of his eye. “You’re a man with a lot of questions, Mr. Winchester,” he says at last. He holds out his hand once more, presumably for help standing, and Dean grasps it automatically. Castiel jumps lithely to his feet, like a cat with spring-coiled legs. “Allow me to ask one of my own. Why did you stop being a doctor?”

Dean drops Castiel’s hand as if it had burned him. He laughs, to cover the awkward motion, and swipes his hand across his jeans. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You were,” Castiel answers matter-of-factly. “A surgeon, judging by those hands. They’re good hands; you must have been very adept at your job.” He turns around, yanking a scarf from where it hangs on a bookshelf. Dean’s stomach jumps into his throat. “Come on – we’ll be late.”

“Late for what?” Frustration and distrust leak into Dean’s voice, and he struggles to stamp it down. He’s _professional_ : cool, calm, coordinated. He won’t let this wannabe mentalist get to him. But even as he thinks it, he crosses his arms, hiding his hands from Castiel’s view, and they prickle all over. 

Castiel ignores him completely, slipping a phone out of his pocket and focusing his attention on it instead. “We’ll get there faster if we take the subway instead of your car. Let’s go.”

Without another word, he leaves the room, leaving Dean flustered, bewildered, and thoroughly windswept.

ℵ

_Reject_ , Dean thinks as he swipes his finger over the red button on his phone, effectively banishing the picture of his father’s face from the screen. 

“Hm,” Castiel says, tapping his fingers on the metal handrail of the subway train. “Where did he serve?”

Dean nearly drops the phone. “I, uh – how did you know?” he struggles to ask, but the doors are opening and his words are lost in the clamor of urban life as they are pushed onto the platform by a surge of people.

ℵ

“You still haven’t told me where it is we’re going,” Dean prompts as they walk.

“No, I haven’t. Very astutely observed, Mr. Winchester.” Castiel answers with a sort of obsolete enthusiasm that immediately makes Dean bristle. He snorts, and waits a few seconds before adding, “Did my father tell you what it was I used to do?”

Dean rolls his tongue over his teeth. “All I know is, you were some sorta detective. I didn’t pry, he didn’t divulge.” He shrugs. “What I know is, y’know, at your discretion or whatever.”

“How considerate,” Castiel comments with increasing dryness. “You’re correct, in the loosest sense of the word. Before I took up residency with our friends at Hemdale, I was a consultant for Scotland Yard. I offered my assistance whenever necessary.”

Dean digests that information, kicking idly at a pebble as he passes it. “So you, what, solved murders and shit? Man, no wonder you got bad. Working with that kind of stuff must’ve been tough.”

Castiel shoots him a sidelong glance and answers, quietly and stiffly, “My work had nothing to do with my descent into substance abuse, Mr. Winchester,” and picks up his pace.

Dean hears the crime scene long before he sees it – the sound of police chatter on the radio, the staccato _whoop-whoop_ of a siren is evidence enough. They turn the corner to face the blocked-off entrance of a townhouse. Dean turns to stare at Castiel.

“My point was,” Castiel murmurs. “At the behest of my dear father, I have decided to resume my work as a consultant here, in New York.”

ℵ

As they walk up the path to the townhouse, they are intercepted by a man with a grizzled beard and a badge pinned to the lapel of his coat.

“Novak! Finally.” he says briskly. He turns narrowed eyes on Dean. “Who’s this?”

Castiel dips his head at the man, the most respectful gesture Dean has seen him make thus far. “Captain, this is Dean Winchester. Mr. Winchester, this is Captain Robert Singer.”

“How do you do,” Singer greets dryly. “Novak, we need you in there. Dean, you can just wait out here.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m going to need him to accompany me,” Castiel tells him, glancing fleetingly over at Dean.

“Uh, that’s not necessary,” Dean amends hastily, already starting to take some shuffling steps backwards as he speaks.

Castiel catches his elbow, holding him firmly in place. “Excuse us,” he asks of Singer, and pulls gently until Dean follows him. 

“Seriously, man, it’s okay,” Dean speaks awkwardly as they walk. “I’ll just hang out around here or whatever. Go do your thing.”

Castiel fixes him with a dark look, and Dean gets the wild impression that he’s rolling his eyes without actually _rolling his eyes_. “Unless I’m mistaken, part of your responsibility is to escort your clients to their place of business. This is my place of business. I’m simply trying to comply with your policy, Mr. Winchester. That is, if you’re still willing to partake in my father’s most expensive form of patronization?”

Dean tilts his chin up slightly, disliking both Castiel’s words and how easily they get to him. “I’m good, thanks.” He drips as much sarcasm as he has into his voice, smirking to himself when he sees Castiel’s nostrils flare. _Serves the bastard right_ , he thinks snidely.

He walks back over to Captain Singer, flashing the older man a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry about that. I guess I’m going in after all.”

Singer simply nods, but Dean thinks he sees the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Fine with me,” he grunts. A forensic assistant something-or-other marches by him, and he stops her to collect a pair of latex gloves. “Just put these on. And try not to breathe too hard on anything.”

ℵ

The house is old, but all of the appliances have been recently updated. Despite this, there are imperfections everywhere. A chip in the wood in the crown molding of the hallway. A tiny crack in the glass of a framed portrait depicting the wedding of the house’s inhabitants. An unnamable yellow freckle of a stain at the corner of one of the couch cushions. 

All of this Dean notices in the townhouse. He remembers these things, and more, in his apartment on the other side of the city, left uninhabited for the next six weeks. He remembers these things, and wonders if Castiel’s brownstone has any of these little markings left as proof that _yes, someone lives here and someone loves here_. He doubts it. Castiel isn’t exactly a neat freak, but he doesn’t seem the type to leave his own personal touch on his residences. 

The thought makes Dean feel, all at once, unbearably lonely.

Castiel is moving a few feet in front of him, probing at the room with long, gloved fingers. Dean turns to Captain Singer. 

“You been working with him for a while?” he asks.

Singer shrugs. “Eh, here and there. Little things. I worked with him once about five years ago on an international case with Scotland Yard, so when I heard he was comin’ here, I took the shot.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “So he’s the real thing? All this detective stuff?”

“Ain’t seen nothin’ like it before,” Singer tells him. “Kid’s got a gift. Not that I’d ever tell him that to his face. He don’t need a bigger ego, too.”

“Huh.” Dean makes a face. “Truer words have never been spoken. He’s kind of a little shit. Uh – excuse the language, Captain.”

Singer chuckles. “Call me Bobby, son. And there’s no ‘kind of’ about it. Novak’s a piece of work through and through, but the boy gets results. And he’s not that bad with a little liquor in his system, either – say what you want, but he can down a Jäger like nobody’s business.”

Dean blinks in alarm at that. Recovering drug addicts were supposed to stay away from all kinds of things that could compromise their sobriety, including alcohol and tobacco. He makes a mental note to approach Castiel about that later. It’s not like he could ask Bobby – Castiel had practically dropped off the grid in his years of drug use, and no one else but his family, and Dean, knows of his predicament. He reminds himself of that as well, knowing he must maintain his companion-client confidentiality vow in check.

_Right,_ he chastises himself. _Remember what you’re here for._

Half a heartbeat later, Castiel is striding purposefully back to them. “What happened here, Captain?”

Dean sees the professional curtain slide over Bobby’s gaze. “Victim’s name is Alexandria Grahame. She was reported missing by her husband yesterday; she never came home the night before last.”

Castiel casts a cursory glance around the room. “That wouldn’t have been unusual for her. The couple was likely having marital problems.”

Dean throws an _is this guy freakin’ serious_ look at Bobby, but the captain merely raises his eyebrows. His face says it all: _What’d I tell ya, kiddo._

Castiel frowns at their silent exchange. “The photos,” he explains, gesturing to the mantle over the fireplace. “They’re organized. Single portraits on the left, frames of the couple on the right. All of the single portraits have been cleaned recently, and are well taken care of, but their wedding and vacation photos have a fine layer of dust on them. Whoever has been cleaning is either pained or uncomfortable with the reminder of their marriage.”

He nods in the direction of what must be the master bedroom. “Husband’s nightstand is devoid of personal effects, and the bathroom contains mostly feminine products belonging to the victim. This was more of a home for her than it was for him.”

Bobby is silent for a few long seconds. Then, “She wouldn’t run away.”

“It’s unlikely.” 

“Damn it,” Bobby sighs, rubbing a hand over weary, deep-set eyes. “You thinkin’ she was kidnapped?”

Castiel gnaws at his lip. “I can’t be certain.”

“Oh, that’s a first.” The words weren’t supposed to be said aloud, Dean swears. But there they are, and they float through the air, tangible and unable to be taken back. Castiel’s eyes flash, and he opens his mouth.  
“I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression of myself, Mr. Winchester.” His voice is stony, and Dean is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that Bobby and the forensic specialists are still in the room with them. “But I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t belittle me. I get enough of that treatment from my father.”

Dean narrows his eyes. On one level, he feels a bit guilty. But on another, more superficial level, he wants to see this dick put in his place. “All you’ve done since we met – ” He casts a swift glance at Bobby, remembering at the last second not to mention that he and Castiel had only just met that day, “ – is belittle me. Haven’t you heard of the golden rule, Mr. Novak? ‘Treat others the way you wanna be treated’. It’s this thing called basic manners.”

Castiel stiffens, bristles, and readies himself to lash out once more. But then the fight goes out of him, and he deflates.

“I apologize,” he repeats again, sounding less sure of himself this time. He looks as though he’s dangling on a precipice, wanting to say more, but he steps forward and the floorboard creaks and as he looks down in surprise, the moment snaps.

“There’s something here,” he murmurs distractedly, and promptly throws himself down on the ground. 

Bobby casts a long-suffering look at Dean before crouching down by Castiel. “Whatcha got, Novak?”

“I don’t know yet,” Castiel mutters, pressing his face to the wood. He runs a hand over the boards by an expensive-looking rug. “Do you feel it? The floor bends outward here. I think – ” He flips the side of the rug. “Yes, do you see how the rug is more frayed here than on the other edges? It’s been handled, repeatedly, by – ”

Castiel lets out a cry of triumph. His fingers fly to the edge of one of the boards. It is chipped at one end, but Castiel digs his finger right into the scarred wood. He fumbles with it for a few seconds before it clicks and – starts to open?

“It’s a fucking trapdoor,” Dean blurts dumbly, staring with an open mouth at the newly exposed evidence.

“Good catch,” Castiel praises him sardonically, but softens the blow with a genuine smile. He does not open the trapdoor completely. “Did the husband mention anything about a hidden room?”

Bobby shakes his head, twisting his lips in displeasure. “Nah, and it ain’t in the official listing either, but it wouldn’t be the first time these upper city tweaks installed a storage unit under the house.”

Castiel frowns suddenly. “Can you find out when this house was built?”

Bobby holds up his hand and requests file number whatever from one of the assistants. “The listing,” he explains shortly. “Brought it to make sure we didn’t leave any of the rooms unchecked. Obviously that was a bust.” He flips through the pages. “Uh, says here around the early ’60s.”

“Flooring here looks to be about that old.” Castiel grimaces. “Meaning the trapdoor is from the same time. If it hasn’t been well maintained, there could be lead paint on those walls. Dust could have been dislodged. You might want to give your men protective gear before they go down there.”

The men are fitted in gloves and sterile hospital masks in record time. They lift the trapdoor in one fluid motion, and immediately take a collective step backward.

“Captain, you might want to see this,” one of them says. 

Bobby rounds the corner from where he’s been supervising the work in the kitchen, already fastening a mask around his nose and mouth. “What is it, Henriksen?” 

The man nods sharply towards the trapdoor entrance. Dean doesn’t need to get up to look. He’d know that smell anywhere: the smell of a slowly decaying body, of the putrefaction that sometimes accompanies diseased organs. He’d never been able to stand it, always been the one to dab Vaseline at the base of his nose. Bobby glances in and swears loudly. 

Castiel approaches with more caution, also sporting a mask. “I take it that’s the victim,” he comments drily. 

“Looks like,” Bobby answers. “Guess she wasn’t kidnapped after all.”

“No, ‘cause this is so much better,” Dean gripes, having come up behind them. He blames the fact that he peeks in despite his better judgment on his scientific curiosity.

The woman is curled in on herself, lounging on a twin bed that takes up most of the storage unit space, looking for all the world like she’s just settled in for a quick nap. Dean catches sight of the syringe, needle buried deep in her elbow flexure, and immediately grabs hold of Castiel and drags him away from the scene. 

“Dean – ” Castiel protests, slapping at him.

“No,” Dean answers furiously, dropping his voice to a whisper. “This is our fucking first day together. I don’t know how controlled you are. I’m sure as hell not letting you even look at this shit until we can sit down and figure out your situation.”

Castiel rips his arm away from Dean’s grip. “I am not a child, Dean,” he snarls. “The only reason you’re even here is because my father refuses to accept the fact that I can handle myself on my own. I am not some dribbling mess for you to clean up, and I’m certainly not going to let you stand in the way of my work.”

“Look,” Dean says, backing up a few steps. He raises his hand in surrender. “This arrangement isn’t going to work if all we do is snap at each other like kids.”

Castiel eyes him, distrust and practicality warring in his stare. “I can maintain a level of professionalism,” he answers slowly, “if you would extend me the same courtesy.”

“Fine.” Dean shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t watch out for you. It’s my job, and you’re gonna have to accept it, at least for the next six weeks.”

He pauses. Castiel is a rollercoaster. This he knows. It’s been hours since they met, and already he has seen practically every degree of emotion from Castiel. But Castiel, admittedly, doesn’t seem out of control, either. His movements, however impulsive, are certain. He is a far cry from some of the other clients Dean has worked with in the past. 

And this is a relationship built on trust. Dean has to respect that trust, no matter how much he thinks Castiel is just begging for a punch to the face. 

Castiel is staring at him. Dean doesn’t know whether Castiel is waiting for his permission or daring him to defy him.

“Okay,” Dean amends at last. Fighting is the last thing he wants to do, first day on the job. “Just go solve this murder.”

Castiel’s face softens to something that is not quite a smile. Dean thinks he looks a little surprised. “Thank you, Dean,” he tells Dean gratefully. He reaches for Dean’s shoulder, but stops halfway there and lets his arm fall back to his side instead.

“Go, dumbass,” Dean prompts, angling for a little levity. He pointedly ignores the half-assed gesture. 

Castiel casts him one more long look before turning around and making his way back to the trapdoor. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Focus, Winchester.

“We’re thinking suicide,” Bobby says when they both return, as if the past few minutes had never happened. 

Castiel shakes his head. “No, she wouldn’t have hidden herself if she was intending on ending her life.”

“What, are you a psychologist now, too?” The man named Henriksen asks. His voice is sharp with disdain.

“I never claimed to be one, Victor,” Castiel murmurs, unfazed by his harsh tone. It sounds to Dean like this discourse is one that occurs often. “But I do know how to apply logic to these situations. If you were to commit suicide, would you do it in a hidden storage unit under your house where it is improbable anyone would find your body? No, she had every intention of coming back out. It’s likely this was where she went to administer the drugs to her system, and suffered an accidental overdose.”

Dean asks one of the forensic assistants politely for a mask before leaning over the hole in the floor. When something catches his eye, he climbs halfway down the storage room’s ladder, right by the head of the bed. “No,” he utters in disbelief. “It wasn’t an OD either. She was poisoned.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Bobby narrows his eyes. “The needle’s right there in her arm, I don’t think it gets any clearer than that.”

“Look at her skin.” Dean shifts to the side, allowing both Castiel and Bobby to get a better view of Alexandria Grahame’s body. He hesitates for a heartbeat before continuing, casting a side glance at Castiel and remembering his earlier assumption. “I used to work cardio down at New York Presbyterian. We would get cases of chronic exposure to cyanide – long-term contact can cause serious issues with the heart and other organs. I’d hear stories, though, of the trauma specialists getting the more immediate cases. One time, I went to take a look, and the man looked just like her.” 

He gestures at the victim, slipping gradually back into the medical speak he’d dropped the second he’d walked out of that hospital for good. “Do you see how red she is? That’s the cyanide inhibiting cellular respiration, causing an increase in the venous hemoglobin oxygen saturation. The oxygen in the blood isn’t being consumed, so the body becomes oversaturated.” With one gloved finger, he reaches down and pulls gently at the victim’s lip, tugging until they can see evidence of black bile covering her teeth. “Yeah, this too. It corrupts the stomach, pretty much chars it, and when the patient tries to yack it back up, it comes out black.”

Dean climbs back out of the room, sitting back on his haunches. “Talk to your coroner, they’ll probably say the same thing once they can get her on the table. A blood sample should do the trick, but sometimes it’ll give a false positive or whatever. Either way, they’ll be able to tell just by looking at the stomach and spleen.” He looks up at last, meeting the others’ astonished gazes with a raised eyebrow. “What, did you think all I was going to do was sit here and look pretty?”

Bobby is the first to recover. He turns to the forensic examiner on the other side of the room. “You hear that?” he calls. “Get this body packed up and down to the coroner’s office. Benny’s gonna have a field day with this one.”

ℵ

“I was right.” Castiel sounds far too smug. Dean suppresses the urge to growl.

“Yeah,” Dean admits drily. “You want a gold star? Brownie points? Participation ribbon?” 

They walk a while, silent. Bobby told them to go on ahead, that “we don’t need you two prowlin’ around, gettin’ under everyone’s paws”. So they make their way, the setting sun on their backs, back to the subway station. At last, Dean’s burning interest takes precedence over his other marauding thoughts, and he asks, “How’d you figure it out? You said somethin’ about my hands.”

“Manual dexterity is the driving force behind what makes someone a good surgeon,” Castiel explains by way of answering. “You can memorize all the facts, you can know the anatomy of the human body inside and out, but the hands are what make you successful.”

They’ve arrived. Castiel stops at the entrance to the subway station, leaning against one of the railings. “Your hands are a work of art, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean inhales sharply. “So, what, that’s it? You watched my hands and they told you I was a surgeon?”

Castiel tilts his head to one side. Those eyes, even in the growing gloom of the dusk, feel like they’re stripping Dean of his skin, his muscles, even his bones, and laying him bare. “Not just your hands,” Castiel says softly. “I have no doubt that you were very good at your job, Mr. Winchester, but everyone has scars written on their soul. It’s in your eyes. You did not walk away from that hospital without blood on your hands.”

Nausea rises in Dean’s stomach with every word that Castiel utters. _Blood, blood on my hands, on my name, on my everything, it’s too much._ His chest constricts, convulses, and he aches to flee, but Castiel is already turning and walking down the steps, and Dean follows numbly, falling deeper and deeper into his shoes with every clatter of feet on pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes, not to the blaring alarm he is used to, but to the soft comforting feel of the sun shining on his body through the window. He jolts upright, peering blearily at the outlet where he’s sure he plugged in his alarm clock the night before, and finds it unplugged.

“What the hell is this?” he asks the second his feet hit the first floor.

Castiel comes out of the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, holding two mugs of coffee. “I thought you needed the extra rest.” He extends one of the mugs to Dean, who grabs it grudgingly.

“Sleeping in’s not part of my job description,” he tells Castiel scathingly.

“Captain Singer called an hour ago,” Castiel answers instead, brushing past Dean’s halfhearted scolding. “We’re to go down to the precinct when available. You can finish your coffee first, if you wish.”

“Gee, thanks.” Dean checks his watch. “That’ll make the total amount of time I’ve spent awake in this house about half an hour. You tryin’ to run me dry, Novak?”

Castiel clinks the rim of his mug against Dean’s. “If my plan was to exhaust you, it wouldn’t involve turning off your alarm clock. There are other ways of wasting time in bed in this house, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean turns an alarming shade of red at that, cursing the warmth spreading across his cheeks. He tilts his chin up, plastering on his cheekiest grin in retaliation. “Gosh, Mr. Novak, aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first?”

Castiel laughs. It’s the first time Dean’s heard him do so, and he is surprised by how genuine it sounds. “About that. If we’re going to be living together for six weeks, I believe I’d like to know more about you beyond your profession. We should… talk.”

It’s amazing how many ways Castiel can find to surprise Dean. “Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, if you want.”

Castiel dips his head. “You impressed me yesterday. It’s not something people do often. I’ve underestimated you. Consider this my apology.”

Dean finishes off the last of his coffee, using his full mouth as an excuse not to answer knowing full well he’s already turning pink at the ears. “Yeah, well, I’m a gem. Come on, Romeo, let’s go.”

ℵ

The precinct house is just a few minutes from their brownstone, so they walk. They are quiet as they do, the only sound the crunching that their boots make on the half-melted slush from last night’s snowfall. 

The first person they encounter inside the police station is a petite blonde. Dean approaches her, smiling as he goes. “Excuse me, miss, we’re looking for Captain Singer?”

The blonde stares at him, one brow inching its way up her forehead. “It’s _Officer_ , Skippy, not _miss_. Officer Harvelle. Say it with me.”

Dean blinks. “Sorry, uh – Officer Harvelle. But we really need to see the captain.”

Officer Harvelle purses her lips, looking him over. Her eyes flick to Castiel. “Are you that Novak guy?”

Castiel nods, and Harvelle reluctantly turns on her heel and beckons for them to follow her. She leads them to a secluded office tucked in the corner of the station. Dean can just see Bobby through the half-closed blinds.

“Captain,” Officer Harvelle announces, rapping her knuckles on the partially opened glass door. She jerks her head in Dean and Castiel’s general direction. “These guys are here to see you.”

Bobby raises his hand and waves them in. They shuffle past Officer Harvelle’s frosty glare. “Thanks, Jo. ‘Preciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Cap,” Jo answers, already on her way back to her post. “Whatever you say.” 

Bobby catches Dean staring at him, half aghast and half impressed. “What?” the captain asks defensively. “Jo’s a little rough around the edges when ya first meet her, but she’s a good kid. Wipe that look off your face.”

Dean chuckles, lifting his hands in surrender. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t want to face that girl in a fight.”

“Neither would anyone with a lick of sense.”

Castiel interrupts the banter. “Why did you call us down here, Captain?”

Bobby eyes him before answering. “Our coroner’s finished his examination. He wants to have a chat with the two of you before submitting his report. You can ask Jo to take you to his office.”

“Can’t you just show us?” Dean asks. He just knows he does not want to step on Jo’s toes again, even when the first time was by accident.

Bobby fixes him with a pointed glare. “You think I just sit around here with my thumb up my ass, boy? I got real people stuff to do. Get.” 

They make their way back out to the central office space, looking around for Jo’s familiar face. Castiel spots her first, laughing with another officer, this one a redhead. _At least she can crack a smile_ , Dean thinks.

As they approach, Dean swears he hears Castiel mutter from the corner of his mouth, “Careful. She can probably smell your fear.” 

Jo stops laughing the second she sees them. “What’s up? You get lost?”

“You gonna yell at me again if I talk?” Dean counters.

Jo shrugs. “Depends on what you have to say.”

The redhead smacks her lightly across the shoulder. “Down, girl.” She hops down from her resting place atop the desk and extends a hand to Dean. “Heya, Castiel! And ‘heya’ to you too, newbie. I’m Charlie Bradbury.”

Dean shakes her hand, nodding respectfully. “Nice to meet you, Officer Bradbury.”

Charlie breaks into a snort of laughter. “Dude, no. Just call me Charlie. Jo’s the one that gets all technical about it. If you really want to, though, you can call me Agent. I’m not, but agents get all the perks. Plus, it sounds really cool if you, like, pretend you’re in Men in Black or something. Wait, so don’t just call me Agent. I’m Agent C.”

“That’s a little awkward,” Castiel deadpans suddenly. “Does this mean there are two of us now?”

“It can joke,” Dean exclaims in surprise. Even Jo allows a grin to grace her face.

“Alright, alright,” she interjects, rolling her eyes. “Seriously, what do you guys need?”

“Bobby said the coroner wants to talk to us,” Dean explains. “Little bird told us you might know where his office is.”

Jo straightens under the responsibility. “Just might. Come on.” She nods toward a hallway leading toward the back of the building. “It’s downstairs. Charlie, you coming?”

Charlie makes a face reminiscent of a pug’s. “Uh, no thank you. I love Benny and all, but that place gives me the heebs. And the jeebs. Both of them. All at once.”

Jo chuckles as she starts walking to the hallway. “It’s not _that_ bad, scaredy cat.”

“It’s the Addams family’s nightmare house!” 

The doors shut behind them, cutting off any sort of reply Jo might have made. They descend the stairs in a single file, constricted by the narrow steps. At the end of the staircase lies a metal door.

“Benny,” Jo calls, knocking before opening the door. “You got visitors.”

The man at the end of the room turns to them, a small smile already lighting up his face. He’s wearing a well-loved lab coat, worn at its elbows and collar. 

“Hey,” he greets in a low, rumbling drawl. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

“Glad to be here,” Dean answers, somewhat uncertainly. “I think.”

Castiel flutters slightly. Dean watches his hands move across the autopsy table to his right, his slender fingers leaving a barely-there smudge. He’s nervous, Dean realizes as Castiel’s nails clatter across the stainless steel.

“Captain Singer said you had some news for us,” Castiel prompts. 

Benny nods, turning from his paperwork and walking to one of the cold chambers. He opens the refrigerated storage unit, drawing out with a huff the slab within. Opening the white body bag, he steps aside to allow Dean and Castiel to get a closer look. Jo glances over it quickly, grimaces, and steps back.

“Grahame, Alexandria, age 28,” Benny announces.

Now that he’s not distracted by the circumstances, Dean can tell that the woman was pretty in life. Long auburn hair, high cheek-boned, full lips. Her cherry red skin brings him back to the present. “Okay,” he murmurs, taking deep breaths through his mouth. The stench of death hangs even in this sterilized air. “Okay.”

Benny squints at him. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but Dean nods anyway. Benny extends a white-gloved hand. Dean grasps it gingerly. “Benny Lafitte. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, brother.”

“Brother?” Dean’s voice cracks on the word. He forces himself to concentrate on the speckled tile beneath his feet, rests his burning hands on cool metal. _Focus_ , he reminds himself. _Focus, breathe, release_. He exhales.

“Heard you were a surgeon back in the day,” Benny clarifies. “Not too different, you and I. Only you worked on the poor suckers who actually had a chance of livin’.”

Dean clears his throat. “Guess so.”

“Well, turns out you were right about the cyanide poisoning,” Benny tells him. The change in subject eases the tension from Dean’s shoulders. “Her stomach was near burned. It’s fridged, if you want to take a look.”

“I think we’re good,” Dean says at the same time that Castiel requests, “Please.”

Dean and Castiel lock stares, Castiel silently daring Dean to defy him. Dean rolls his eyes and gestures vaguely. “Fine. Go get your creep on.” 

Benny removes the containers from their compartments and pops one open. “Take a look,” he offers to Castiel, who walks over with caution. “C’mon, it won’t bite.”

Dean goes after Castiel and hears Jo follow close behind.

The stomach, as Dean had predicted, looks more like a rotten squash than an organ. “It’s the altered blood makeup that does it in,” Benny explains. “It stains the inside of the linin’. The poison does the rest and strips it clean.”

“It looks like a piece of shit,” Jo remarks pleasantly.

Benny grunts his agreement. “And if that weren’t enough, I took the extra step and ran her blood through the missus.”

“The missus?” Dean frowns.

“Mass spectrometer,” Benny elucidates, smiling contritely. “It’s a tiresome mouthful after the first couple days. Forgot that you new faces aren’t yet familiar with our lingo. Apologies.”

Castiel hesitates. “And this… missus, what did it tell you?” 

“What I already knew.” Benny snaps the container closed, placing it carefully back in what looks to Dean suspiciously like a glorified meat freezer. “Lit up like a Christmas tree. It was cyanide, alright.”

“Great,” Jo sighs, clapping her hands together. “So we’re definitely suspecting foul play?”

Benny runs his tongue over his teeth. “Looks like. The syringe y’all found on her had traces of both cyanide and heroin. Likely she didn’t have a clue what she was really puttin’ in her system.”

Jo holds her hand out for the file. “Alright. If you’re done, I’ll get your report up to Bobby and we can open a full investigation.”

Bobby gives it to her obligingly. The three of them turn to leave as Benny begins to zip Alexandria Grahame back into her body bag. “Don’t be strangers, now,” he calls as they file one by one out the door. “It’s always nice to have company down here.”

ℵ

“Dean,” Bobby bids. Jo has just concluded her informative meeting with the captain, and she’s already back out on the floor. Dean has one foot out the door. He turns questioningly back to Bobby and raises his eyebrows. “Have a seat, son.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Castiel murmurs, and is gone before Dean can even blink.

Dean sits stiffly in one of Bobby’s two office chairs, rigid and anxious.

“Breathe, boy,” Bobby chuckles. “This ain’t an execution.”

The strain on Dean’s chest relaxes fractionally. “Yeah, Bobby?”

Bobby leans forward, lacing his fingers together. “You ever think about pursuin’ a career here, Dean?”

Dean blinks, startled. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean workin’ alongside Castiel out there. He gets a lot of stuff done, but even he didn’t realize the vic had been poisoned. We could use your brain.”

“Benny would’ve found it,” Dean mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He rubs his neck self-consciously. In truth, he hadn’t thought about anything even in the realm of medicine in two years. He’d just as likely be dead weight in the field. “I mean, coroners have to perform autopsies in any case.”

“Maybe so,” Bobby acknowledges, “but thanks to you we’ve gained some hours in the investigation. No one else in that room thought for a second it mighta been murder.”

Dean stares steadfastly at his lap, tangling and untangling his fingers. 

“Think about it, Dean,” Bobby suggests, his voice gentler now. “You’d do good here, as another consultant. Hell, you and Novak could work as a team.”

Dean swallows. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Bobby that he’ll be out of all of their lives in six weeks, but it’s a necessity. “Thing is, Bobby, I’m only stickin’ around for a couple of weeks. Then I’m back on the other side of the city.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bobby motions for Dean to elaborate. “Yeah, I’ve been wonderin’ about that part, too. How do you even know Castiel? He ain’t the type to have a lot of friends, and you two don’t seem to get along peachy.”

“It’s a long story,” Dean says hurriedly. “And it’s not mine to tell. Sorry, Bobby.”

Something clouds in Bobby’s pinhole stare. He purses his lips. “My offer stands, and shut up,” he says abruptly as Dean opens his mouth. “It stands, even if it’s only for a few weeks. You’re welcome on this case if you want in.”

Dean inhales. He holds the breath, lets it turns stale in his mouth, turns it over with his tongue. He lets it out until his ribs tighten on his lungs. “Okay.”

ℵ

“It’s no Eleven Madison Park,” Castiel murmurs as they are seated.

Dean glances around the restaurant. It’s not particularly large, just cozy enough to create a warm, comfortable environment. The leather of their booth is scratched and threadbare in places, but the place is clearly well cared for. A family establishment, Dean would venture to guess. “It’s perfect,” he assures.

“Castiel,” a husky female voice calls from the bar. Dean’s eyes follow the sound to a middle-aged brunette woman. She has a small, motherly smile on her face.

Castiel smiles back at her. “Ellen,” he answers. “This is Dean.” He lowers his voice. “Ellen owns the restaurant. As it happens, she’s also Jo’s mother.”

Dean barely has time to react with surprise before Ellen is approaching their table. “Good to see ya, Castiel. Dean, welcome to the Roadhouse. Can I get you somethin’ to drink?”

Dean clears his throat, deliberately keeping his eyes off the shelved whiskeys. “A coffee would be great.”

Ellen dips her head. “Cream, sugar?”

“None, thanks.”

“How about you, Castiel?”

“I believe I’ll have a coffee as well. With a great deal of both.” Castiel shoots her a squinty smile. 

Ellen pats him once on the shoulder as she makes her leave. Dean leans back in his booth, examining his menu with excessive scrutiny. “So, you heard anything from Bobby about the case?” 

Castiel doesn’t touch his menu. Dean finds it strangely endearing that he frequents this place so much that he already knows precisely what he wants. “They’re pulling Matthew Grahame in for questioning tomorrow.”

Dean gives a low whistle. “The husband? You think he’d be stupid enough to kill his wife and stash her body in their house?”

“She was found in a hidden room,” Castiel reminds him, shrugging. “Perhaps he believed that would be the best place for her, at least until he could move her in secret.”

Dean taps one of many pictures of hamburgers on his menu. “Still, he’s the one who reported her missing. Not exactly a move of the guilty.”

“Alexandria was an attorney. If he hadn’t reported her missing, her firm would have. He could’ve reported it to make it less suspicious and create reasonable doubt.”

Ellen returns with their coffees, setting them down and tucking her hands in her back pockets. “You boys ready to order?”

Castiel lists his off immediately. Dean is of the _point and “uhh”_ variety. Ellen leaves them with a little laugh.

Leaning forward, Dean props his elbows on the table. “Are we gonna get to sit in for the interrogation?”

“It’s not an interrogation, Dean, it’s just an informal interview. We can’t charge him with anything until we can examine the evidence.” 

“Yeah, yeah, but do we get to watch it?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows in sudden amusement. “You just want to see the real thing, don’t you?” When Dean doesn’t answer, his grin broadens. “Winchester, are you a police show junkie?”

Dean’s mood sours. He frowns at Castiel. “I’m not, I just think the idea’s cool. And don’t use that word.”

“What, ‘junkie’?” Castiel sits back. “Is that part of the regiment? Banning certain words, lest they trigger an attack?”

Dean scratches his head awkwardly. “Uh, there are certain things you’re supposed to stay away from. Just to, like, make the process easier.” He suddenly remembers something. “Speaking of, Bobby told me you’re a sucker for the big booze. That’s _really_ somethin’ you need to keep yourself off.”

Castiel actively refuses to meet his gaze. “It was never alcohol with which I had difficulty.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean insists. “Any of that addictive shit, you gotta do away with. It encourages relapse, which is, y’know, what I’m tryin’ to prevent.”

Castiel peers at him curiously. “Why are you’re allowed to say these things, but I’m not? You’re a recovered addict. An alcoholic, I’d guess, by the way you’ve been acting.”

Dean nearly chokes on his coffee. “What?”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tug themselves downwards when Dean sputters, red-faced, in denial. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Dean. Statistically speaking, most sober companions are people that once suffered addictions of their own. It’s exceedingly rare to encounter one who did not.”

Dean shakes his head, slamming down his coffee mug with a loud clatter. His spoon does a halfhearted flip in the air and falls to the ground. Castiel starts at the sudden noise. 

“No,” Dean says forcefully. He hears the rattle of his mug against the plate and realizes his hand is shaking. As though the ceramic has burned him, he snatches his hand away. “We are _not_ talking about me.”

“Dean – ” Castiel starts, but Dean cuts him off with an emphatic, “Stop right there, Novak.”

Castiel blinks, giving a surprised little huff. “Alright.” 

Dean stares at him for a few more seconds, and Castiel stares right back. Something is boiling, bubbling in Dean’s chest, and he tries in vain to swallow it down. It knocks at the back of his mind. He refuses to answer the door.

With slow, measured movements, Dean reaches down to retrieve the lost spoon. He sets it aside with careful delicacy, as though it might break. When he scrapes together enough courage to look back up at Castiel, the other man is stoically inspecting his napkin. “Most restaurant napkins are two-ply, for economic and environmental purposes,” he murmurs mildly. “These are three-ply.”

“Fascinating.” Dean attempts to inject some sarcasm into his voice, but it comes out listless and hoarse instead. 

“I was born in London.” The abrupt change in subject is nearly enough to give Dean whiplash. 

Dean already knows this, but it is only now that it hits him. “You don’t have an accent.”

Castiel gives him a wry smile. “I was not the ideal child. My father saw that early on, and decided to send me to American boarding schools. I grew up in the United States. My older brother, however, was born and raised in London under my father’s care. I moved out there when I finished college to work with Scotland Yard. I lived there until my father sent me to the rehabilitation center here, but it never really felt like home.”

“Huh,” Dean comments eloquently. “Did he not know about your superpowers?”

Castiel smirks at the word. “On the contrary. He encouraged me to develop them further. Just far away from him and Balthazar.”

“Balthazar?” Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Castiel? It’s like he _wanted_ you to get picked on.”

Rubbing a finger self-consciously across the side of his coffee mug, Castiel ducks his head. “It was our mother who named us, actually,” he murmurs softly. “She died when I was born. Some complications arose.”

Something molten settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“I know something about that,” he admits at last. “My dad was never the same after, either.”

“Your father,” Castiel muses. “You ignored his call yesterday. Why?”

Dean traces the pattern of the wood grain of the table. “You knew he was ex-military. How?”

Castiel does not falter at the deflection. “His stance in the photo on your phone.”

They clear their throat at the same moment as they simultaneously spot Ellen approaching with their food. She sets their respective plates in front of them. “Anything else I can get ya?”

“No, thank you, Ellen,” Castiel says.

Ellen crosses her arms. “I talked to Jo earlier. Seems the two of you are gettin’ involved in the police’s troubles. Now why would that be?”

“I offered my services,” Castiel explains. “They accepted them. Dean was also very impressive.” He pops a fry into his mouth, chewing pensively. “It’s likely why they offered him a job as well.”

Dean shoots him a look. He hadn’t yet told Castiel about his conversation with Bobby. But, as he was beginning to realize, there isn’t much he can try to hide from Castiel.

Ellen is quiet for a few heartbeats. “You boys be careful out there, alright?” she tells them at last. “I already got enough stress worryin’ about Jo day and night without having to add you to the list.”

Castiel nods solemnly. “We promise, Ellen.”

She gives them a quick nod and departs.

“So your dad,” Dean prompts when she’s out of sight. “What’s he up to these days?”

Castiel exhales slowly and leans back, wiping absently at a smudge of sauce at the corner of his lip. “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

Dean nods, understanding. “I can get that. Okay, so how about this: how’d you get into this shit?”

Castiel lifts his head. “What do you mean?”

“You said yesterday that the stuff you did in London had nothin’ to do with getting involved with drugs. So why did you?” 

Castiel’s mouth opens, then closes firmly. His lips tighten into a white line. He returns to the study of his napkin.

“Come on, man,” Dean says in surprise. “It’s part of my job to – ”

“I respected your wishes not to speak of things that upset you,” Castiel interrupts sharply. “Respect mine.”

A quiet descends over them like a blanket of ice. Dean shakes himself internally. He lets his gaze travel once over all of Castiel’s curves and edges, wishing somewhat unnervingly that he could soften them. But instead he turns to his meal, and retreats inside himself.

ℵ

Castiel is _not_ a morning person. Dean discovers this in the moments between watching a bulky pillow sail towards his head and diving out of its way.

“Yesterday was my one exception,” Castiel grumbles into his remaining pillows. The guy’s built something of a nest for himself. Dean’s sure he sees more pillow than mattress. “And it came with awful consequences.”

Dean struggles to balance the fold-up table he’s holding as he kicks the cotton-filled missile back over towards Castiel’s bed. “But I made you breakfast,” he protests.

A sliver of blue appears as Castiel slides one eye halfway open. “Why?”

“You made me coffee yesterday,” Dean explains, gingerly setting the board on the side of the bed not inhabited by Castiel’s long limbs. “Thought I’d return the favor.” 

Castiel manages to lift his head, peering suspiciously at Dean. The food’s good, Dean knows it’s good, and he sees Castiel’s entire demeanor change when his eyes zero in on the meal.

“Where did you get all of this?” Castiel asks, sitting up and crossing his legs under him. He is shirtless, but in sweatpants, and Dean thanks every deity he can think of that Castiel doesn’t sleep au naturel. 

“I went to the grocery store. And threw out half of your fridge. You do know that food expires, right?”

Castiel is too busy stuffing his face to answer. He makes a near pornographic noise with every bite, so much so that Dean’s face begins to warm. “Dude, slow down,” he manages. “You’re gonna choke.”

“It would be worth it,” Castiel mumbles after a hearty swallow. 

Dean, for lack of anything better to say, pats Castiel’s shoulder. He turns to leave. “Alright, well, hurry up and put on somethin’ decent. Bobby called.”

ℵ

They take Castiel’s car to the precinct this time, though Dean nearly lets out a cry of despair when he sees it. 

“A _Prius_?” Dean feels offended for cars everywhere. “You drive a fucking Prius?”

Castiel sends him a pointed glare. “They’re good for the environment,” he says primly. “Get in the car, Winchester.”

“This is an insult.” Dean throws up his hands in defeat. He opens the passenger door with a vicious yank. “I can’t believe this.”

They spend most of the car ride in silence, though Dean’s excessive scowling and Castiel’s ability to give martyred sighs every thirty seconds drive them both almost to their boiling points.

“They’re in Room One,” Jo tells them as soon as they walk through the door, pointing to the named room. 

Dean and Castiel school themselves before entering, though Dean does try to trip Castiel on the way in. He’s only human, after all. Henriksen – Victor, Dean remembers – is on one side of the table. On the other, a man with brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses glances up at them.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“We’ll ask the questions here,” Dean answers before he can stop himself, earning himself an eye roll from Victor.

“This is Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester. They’re consultants for the police department,” Victor tells the man, Matthew Grahame.

Dean sits himself down by Victor. Castiel stands behind the two, looking far too antsy to restrict himself in a chair. 

“Now we can start,” Victor says. “Mr. Grahame, where were you between six and eight at night last Tuesday?”

Matthew folds his arms over his chest. “I was at work.”

“Says here you’re a chemistry teacher,” Victor glances at the file in front of him and meet Matthew’s stare disbelievingly. “You tryin’ to tell me that you were at the school at eight o’clock at night?”

Shifting, Matthew scratches at his jeans. Dean sees Castiel straighten at the motion. “It’s midterms week. I stayed behind to grade the tests. I didn’t want to trouble Alex at home, she… was stressed enough as it was, with a case she was working.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel accuses softly.

Victor’s eyes harden. “Why don’t you go ahead tell us the truth, Mr. Grahame?”

Matthew exhales breathily. “Can I get some water or something?”

Victor nods, and sits back. “You might want to get comfortable. This is gonna be a rough one.”

_“It’s gonna be a rough one.”_

_“I trust you, Dean.”_

Dean freezes where he sits, his hands clenching and unclenching slowly. No one in the room notices. Matthew Grahame is trembling slightly, staring over the rims of his glasses at Castiel. Castiel is pacing erratically behind him, Victor is asking questions. Someone walks in with Matthew’s glass of water. Dean watches a drop of condensation slide down its side and pool on the table. _You’re here_ , Dean tells himself. _You’re at the precinct. You’re at the –_

_Hospital._

_“What if I mess up? Seriously, can’t you ask someone else to do it?”_

_“Come on, man. You’re the best surgeon I know. I’ll be fine.”_

_Fine. Fine. Fine._

Dean witnesses his world goes in and out of focus. Victor’s words sound garbled and distorted, slow, _so slow. I was so careful._ Castiel’s footsteps clatter behind him, sound loud as gunshots to Dean’s ears. His breathing goes shallow. And everything snaps.

_The bright red splatter is a shock. He is sprayed from neck to waist in arterial blood, pulsing, bubbling from a nick in the aorta. He stands, paralyzed, as the numbers on the screen by his side start flashing, spiraling, tumbling. A loud, harsh beeping fills the room. The secondary surgeon pulls back immediately, scalpel in hand._

No.

_“He’s crashing!” One of the nurses yells. They’re running. Everything is going so fast. Too fast. “Dr. Winchester! We need to stop the bleeding!”_

_His hands are shaking so hard he can feel it through his entire body. He is being handed pads, suctions, instruments he can’t remember the names of. All he can think is of that time the cable was knocked out at his apartment and there was nothing but static on for days. That’s how his mind feels. He can’t even recall his own name._

_He can’t remember anything._

_“Dean!” he hears, and the word should be familiar, but it isn’t. “Dean!”_

“Dean!”

He comes to on the floor, with the cold tile pressing against his clammy back. Castiel is hovering over him, inches away, and everything jumps suddenly into detail. Dean thinks, haphazardly, that Castiel’s eyes match the color of the wall behind him.

“Dean, what’s the matter?”

Dean’s heart is beating a frantic tattoo in his chest. He waits for it to slow down, swallowing hard before meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Get out of my face, Novak,” he snaps.

The relief that washes across Castiel’s face makes Dean tingle all the way down to his toes. “We’ll never solve this murder if you keep falling asleep on the job, Dean.” He purses his lips and straightens, giving Dean ample room to scramble to his feet. 

Dean looks around and finds that Grahame and Henriksen have disappeared. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” Castiel answers, though there is still something tense and cautious beneath the rough casualness to his voice. “We’re going home.”

Dean doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he follows Castiel obediently back out to the parking lot. He slides in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window in his exhaustion.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had attacks like that?” Castiel asks quietly. He doesn’t turn on the car.

Dean shuts his eyes tightly, wishing Castiel would just shut up. “Because it’s none of your damn business, that’s why. Start the car, Novak.”

“It is absolutely my business!” Castiel raises his voice, whisking Dean swiftly away from merciful sleep. “It’s rather concerning, don’t you think, that the man who is supposed to aid me through these oh-so-wretched times of mine can’t even control his own past trauma? I daresay that – ”

“ _Trauma_? Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean there’s obviously something you’re not telling me, something you can’t even admit to yourself!” Dean’s blood is boiling, itching to burst right out of his skin. “You’re just lying to yourself, Castiel, and pretending you’re all better. It doesn’t take a fucking genius _consultant_ to figure that one out. So fine! Call Daddy, complain about the broken toy he gave you. Get a new companion! I don’t care.”

Castiel stares at him, all guarded blue eyes and tight-lipped scowls. His face softens then, fractionally, marginally, but enough to shock Dean out of his anger. Castiel reaches over and starts the car.

“Not an option, Mr. Winchester,” he murmurs to the windshield. “Never an option.”


	3. Chapter 3

The itching under Dean’s skin is driving him crazy.

He scratches at it, but relief eludes him. He scratches harder, and he can feel it laughing at him, he knows it’s calling him names. He digs his nails in until it hurts, until his bones groan in protest, but the itching doesn’t stop.

There are moments – brief moments – in which it seems he’s reached it at last. Those fleeting seconds feel like a breath of fresh air, like his lungs are finally working properly. But it crashes again, and his full lungs wither and press against the inside of his chest in their loss. The air turns bitter. It smells like rusted metal.

He is having nightmares, he knows. Those that always follow an intense attack like the one he’d suffered earlier, but he can’t seem to pull himself out of their grip. He can’t pry their gnarled claws out of his skin.

Dean spends most of his time there this afternoon, this place where the ground is blistering and sulfurous, where the rain is red-hot liquid iron. And where the itching never stops.

ℵ

When Dean wakes, he feels heavy. He moves like an unoiled machine, like a thousand years have gone by. It’s nighttime. Dean forces himself out of his bed.

Dean had gone to bed the moment they’d arrived home from the precinct. Castiel had tried to speak with him, but Dean had brushed him off and practically sprinted up the stairs to his room. He vaguely remembers Castiel stopping by the door a few times, knocking softly and calling his name, but after six attempts and Dean’s steadfast silence, he’d stopped.

Somehow, that had made Dean feel even worse.

He treads lightly now, walking down the hallway to Castiel’s room. Checking his phone, he’d discovered it was not nearly as late as he’d imagined, and figured he might as well apologize to Castiel.

Castiel doesn’t answer his door. Dean opens it slowly, but the room is empty.

 _Kitchen_ , Dean decides, and heads there next. The lights are off.

“Castiel?” Dean calls tentatively. There is no response. A boulder drops in Dean’s stomach. “ _Fuck._ ”

The first thought that Dean’s mind conjures is one of Castiel in Alexandria Grahame’s position, curled like a question mark with a needle in his arm. Dean hadn’t had a chance to properly assess Castiel’s risk level beyond the other man’s stubborn words. He hadn’t inspected the house, hadn’t conducted observations of Castiel’s behavior, of his idiosyncrasies, none of the things that Dean normally would have done. _This whole fucking job’s messed me up,_ he thinks furiously, angry with himself for neglecting to do his job properly, angry with Castiel for not trusting him enough, angry with the world for just about everything that has happened in the past three days.

“God _damn_ it, Castiel.” Dean gnashes his teeth and races up the stairs to his suitcase. He tucks what he needs into his pocket and exits the brownstone. Castiel’s car is parked on the street. Dean hurries past it and clambers into his own car, speeding off to the only place he can think of.

ℵ

“Castiel’s gone,” Dean says the second he bursts through the precinct’s door, spotting Jo and Charlie immediately.

Charlie’s nose crinkles in confusion. “What?”

“I fell asleep like a goddamn _idiot_ and I woke up and Castiel was gone and he didn’t leave a note and we had a fight earlier and I think the moron went out to do something stupid and we need to fucking find him before something happens and _why aren’t you doing anything yet_?” Dean’s chest heaves with exertion and adrenaline. He only just manages to stop himself from reaching over and shaking both of them.

Jo puts a hand on his arm. “Dean, calm down.”

“How the _fuck_ am I supposed to calm down when he could be – ”

“ _Dean_.” Jo tightens her grip. “Novak’s not gone. He came in earlier, asking if he could look in the file room. He’s there now.”

Dean feels like Popeye just popped open a can of spinach and socked him in the stomach. “What?” he asks weakly.

Charlie takes his wrist gently. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is.”

Dean lets her pull him along, leaving behind a concerned-looking Jo. Charlie leads him to the file room, not bothering to knock before opening it. Castiel looks up at the noise. He is sitting in the center of the floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes of files.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets.

“Fuck you,” returns Dean.

Charlie clears her throat. “Uh, what’s that, Jo? Yeah, I’ll be right there. Bye, guys.” She turns and flees, slamming the door behind her.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, man?” Dean explodes the second he hears the latch close.

Castiel merely frowns placidly. “Would you like that list organized alphabetically, or are bullets fine?”

“Hilarious,” Dean bites scornfully. “You left the house without telling me. You didn’t leave a note. We’d just had a fight. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“I have my cellphone.” Castiel holds it up as proof. “Did you try calling me?”

Dean opens his mouth for a swift retort and finds his mind blank. He fingers the cold block of his own phone in his pocket and is baffled by his own lack of thinking. Why _had_ he immediately jumped to the worst conclusion?

Instead, he coughs and takes out the packet and latex gloves he’d brought with him. “You know I’m gonna have to test you, right?”

Castiel looks from him to the stick and back again. After a pause, he opens his mouth obediently. Dean slips on the gloves and swabs the inside of Castiel’s cheek before clicking the test back together. He sets it aside and removes the gloves. Castiel looks back down at his work.

While waiting for the test to garner its results, Dean comes around to peek over Castiel’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking over cold cases,” he answers softly.

Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You think the Grahame case could be connected to an old one?”

Castiel is slow to shake his head. Dean has the feeling he is somewhere else entirely. “No, this is just what I do in my… free time. Sometimes it benefits the case the allow fresh eyes to look it over.”

“Or super eyes,” Dean suggests.

Castiel dips his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “They’re not super eyes.”

“You kidding?” Dean huffs. “You’re somethin’ special, alright.”

“I’m not,” Castiel says, blinking up at Dean. “I just find it better to observe, rather than only see. The world is a kaleidoscope, Dean. Sometimes you just have to find the right angle, and it opens up a whole new realm of creation and thought. I’m not special. I’m – ” He shrugs, faltering. “I’m just me.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. He is touched, in some distant way, that Castiel has chosen to share this with him. He returns to the test and finds it negative for all substances. He looks over at Castiel then, who is tracing his finger along the curling edges of old files, surreptitiously mouthing the words he encounters. He closes his eyes and breathes in the mustiness and quiet, listens to the Castiel’s steady breathing. The itching stops.

ℵ

Dean ends up falling asleep on the boxes, lulled by the soft rustling of paper. In between the clouded edges of sleep and consciousness, he feels a rough fabric cover him, drawing itself up to his chin and tickling his jaw.

He dreams.

ℵ

He doesn’t know what it is that wakes him, only that it jars him with a start. He nearly flips off the boxes he’s lying on, only just stopping himself from rolling off the edge. A thick blanket weighs his body down.

Dean sits up slowly, rubbing at his back where the corner of a box has dug into his spine. Castiel is sitting in the same area that Dean remembers last seeing him, still rifling through files.

“What time is it?” he asks, wiping a hand over his eyes.

Castiel doesn’t answer.

"Novak,” Dean calls, clapping his hands to get Castiel’s attention. Castiel blinks himself out of his haze and glances at Dean.

“Yes?”

“What’s up with you?”

Castiel runs his hand over the file in his grip. His fingers are coated with gray dust. “I must have lost track of time.”

“You find anything good?” Dean fiddles with the blanket, turning its corner over in his hands. “Where’d this come from?”

Castiel shakes his head at the first question and purses his lips pensively at the second. “It’s a shock blanket. I found it in one of the storage rooms. You looked cold.”

“Huh,” muses Dean. He doesn’t quite know how he feels. “You tucked me in without a bedtime story? Shame on you.”

Castiel squints at him somewhat peevishly and puts the file down. “It’s late. We should get home.” He stands a little clumsily, shaking out his stiff legs and stretching until his back pops. Dean follows suit.

Dean doesn’t know why he does it, but he folds up the blanket as tenderly as his tired hands allow and hides it, out of view, behind a timeworn and peeling file box.

ℵ

Their morning passes in relative silence, with Dean full of a heaviness he can neither explain nor wish away. Castiel is limp and languid on the living room sofa, with his eyes closed against the lamplight.

Dean manages to slip out of the brownstone, with only the quiet click of the door announcing his departure. He climbs into his car, battling with the weight in his chest. It’s that time again. He feels as though someone has baited fishhooks through his flesh and is pulling every bit of him down into the ground. He feels like stone.

He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. There is no destination set in his mind, but he already knows where he will end up. He always ends up there.

Green-Wood Cemetery is in Brooklyn, but the commute time gives Dean the opportunity to think. He listens to the rumble of his Impala’s engine and remembers, in its echo, the shared laughter of brothers. His grip tightens on the steering wheel. His nails bite into his palms. He exits the Battery Tunnel onto Hamilton Avenue. The anxiety increases with every tick of the odometer. By the time he makes the left turn on 25th Street, he is shaking.

He sits in the car a long while after parking. He can see the rolling acres just beyond the gate, but his stomach has an anchor in it that keeps him seated. He sits until his legs begin to tingle with disuse, and then he stumbles out the door. Before entering, he takes a deep breath and swallows past the prickling in his eyes.

In the first days after the incident, Dean had spent most of his time here. He showed up as the gates opened and did not leave until the guards came to escort him out. He knows the paths well, navigates them as though the ground were made of glass. A paper man walking on glass earth, ready to blow away at the slightest gust, ready to disintegrate at the first sign of rain.

He crouches by the headstone when he finds it. He never liked standing straight when he did this. It felt much more like speaking to a grave when he was looking down at it. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he touches the carved letters, lets their sharp angles slash themselves into his heart. _Sam Winchester_. The name sends shivers down his spine.

 _It was my fault_ , he thinks, and his glass earth shatters. He folds, burying his face in his arms and his knees, and he is wet all over and his paper skin turns to ashes. _God damn it all, it was my fucking fault._

The winter sun is chilly on his back. He leans against the headstone, places his hand flat on the ground under which his baby brother lies. _A stupid mistake, I fucked up the procedure, you’re –_ He cannot bring himself to even think the word. It is poison in his mouth, black tar that sticks to his teeth and chokes his throat. _Because of me. Because of me. Because of me._

Time passes, and he doesn’t move. He repeats words to himself like a mantra, but at the end, like a brilliantly white-hot flash of pain, is his name. _Sam,_ he thinks to himself. He remembers downing alcohol like a dying man would water, feeling the blood of his veins turn to liquor. He bites his lip so hard it splits, and the blossoming taste of metal on his tongue is a bitter reminder of what he has lost.

 _I was supposed to take care of you_ , he apologizes, over and over again.

 _Brother_ , he remembers Benny saying.

 _Blood on your hands_ , he recalls Castiel saying.

_“Dean, you don’t have to babysit me. I’m almost ten. You don’t have to take care of me anymore.”_

_“’Course I do, kid. I gotta take care of you for forever.”_

_So much,_ he thinks, as the time approaches five and a man taps him on the shoulder, _for forever._

ℵ

Castiel is up and about when Dean makes his way back to the brownstone. He scrutinizes Dean when he enters, but doesn’t ask where he’s been or why’s he’s so late in his return.

Dean wonders idly what secrets Castiel sees underneath the layers of his skin, if he is slicing him apart to examine every piece of him. For one bizarre moment, he imagines himself lying on one of Benny’s autopsy tables, with Castiel, scalpel in hand, standing over him. _“Deceased male, chock-full of unresolved daddy issues and PTSD. Man, this guy had problems. What a loser.”_

“Bobby called,” Castiel says quietly. He makes his way to the hall closet and –carefully removes one of Dean’s winter jackets. Handing it to him, he explains simply, “It’s getting cold.”

Dean takes it, reminded vividly of the shock blanket Castiel had covered him with. He shrugs it on, nodding to Castiel in thanks. He tries to smile, but it likely comes out wretched and twisted.

They descend the front steps together. Castiel is about to reach into his pocket for his car keys when Dean grabs his arm. It is a violent grip at first, which startles Castiel into dropping his keys. Dean loosens his fingers, then removes them from Castiel’s arm entirely. He gives an apologetic cough.

“Can we… can we walk?” He asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken in hours. His voice sounds rather like his throat’s been run through a garbage disposal.

Castiel meets his eyes, and to Dean’s relief there is no judgment there. Instead of answering, he stoops to retrieve his car keys. When he straightens, there is a gleam in his eye that was not there before. He places a cautious hand on Dean’s shoulder and nods. “Of course.”

They do not speak while they walk. It’s hard enough for Dean to even breathe around the knot in his stomach. Rather, Dean loses himself in the cobblestone beneath his feet, in the frost making a nest in his hair. He rouses from his abstraction to Castiel picking a ladybug from his shoulder. He hands it to Dean, who holds it dazedly.

“That’s a nine-spotted ladybug,” Castiel murmurs. “They used to be very common in this area, but in the past decades their population’s declined. They’re very rare now. They also usually hibernate during the winter. You must be very special, Dean Winchester, for that ladybug to have chosen you.”

Dean looks down at the tiny insect huddling in the warmth of his palm. It rustles its wings, tucking them underneath the bright red elytra. The white spots on the back of its head seem to stare right at him.

“They’re supposed to be lucky, too,” Castiel adds. There is a shy smile gracing his face. “Maybe we could do with some good luck.”

ℵ

“Do you have a jar or something?” Dean asks Charlie when they enter the precinct. He is still holding the ladybug, peeking at it every once in a while to make sure it hasn’t fled or died.

Charlie eyes him, scrunching up her nose. “Uh, there’s probably an empty Tupperware in the break room.”

“Could you get it?” Dean sits in her swivel chair, spinning once.

Charlie doesn’t question it, but she does hesitate for a few heartbeats before exiting. When she returns, Dean has already found the scissors in her desk drawer. He pokes holes in the plastic lid, ignoring Charlie’s indignant cry, and carefully shakes the ladybug into the container. He snaps the lid over it and lifts it to eye level, watching the insect walk around.

“Victor’s gonna kill me,” Charlie says in dismay. “He was supposed to use that for his dinner.”

“It’s just got a couple holes.”

“ _Unfixable_ holes. That _you_ made. With _scissors._ ”

“Collateral.”

“When he comes for me, I’m sending him after you.”

Satisfied, Dean sets the Tupperware down on Charlie’s desk, and finally looks at Castiel, who is gazing at him peculiarly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Castiel assures, but the way his lips tighten around a smile says differently. “The captain’s expecting us, Charlie.”

As if summoned by his title, Bobby strides over. “I called you boys two hours ago. I’m so glad you finally had the decency to show up.”

Dean ducks his head shamefully, but Castiel speaks up. “We were busy. What is it, Captain?”

“Turns out Matthew Grahame was yarding on his wife before she was killed,” Bobby reveals, slapping down the case file. “One of the neighbors had seen him sneakin’ around. When we brought it up, he spilled real fast.”

“He was having an affair,” Dean clarifies.

Bobby smirks. “Yeah. Confessed that he wasn’t stayin’ late at the school the night of the victim’s death. He was holed up on his left-handed honeymoon – woman by the name of Valerie Trevens.”

Charlie picks up the line, leaning back against her desk. Dean cautiously slides the Tupperware out of her reach. “We’re thinking she might’ve gone jealous wacko and – ” She makes a cutting motion across her throat. “ – the wife. We’re pulling her in tomorrow.”

"But she was with the guy, wasn’t she?” Dean asks. “I mean, they’re kind of each other’s alibis.”

Bobby tips his head. “Matty admitted he fell asleep after they…” He gestures vaguely. “Says he’s a sound sleeper. Trevens could’ve easily slipped out and done the deed before comin’ back.”

Castiel frowns. “No, that doesn’t seem right.”

Charlie furrows her brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Valerie wouldn’t know about the hidden storage room, or about Alexandria’s addiction. No, this isn’t someone connected to the husband. It was someone who knew the victim intimately enough to know the details of her life.” Castiel shakes his head. “There’s more to this story.”

Bobby shrugs. “Sounds pretty cut and dry, son. Wouldn’t be the first time someone killed for jealousy, lust, love, insert your vice of choice here.”

Dean stands, holding the Tupperware container with both hands. “No, Castiel’s got a point. I don’t buy it.” He rubs a thumb over the lid. “Go ahead and talk to her, but I don’t think you’ll find anything.”

Bobby runs a hand over his face. “Okay. You two take Charlie and Henriksen and check out the chem lab. If Grahame were the murderer, he’d have made the cyanide there. I get the feelin’ he’s not the brightest light bulb in the box.”

ℵ

The janitor lets them into the school. Dean, at Castiel’s suggestion, leaves the ladybug’s container at the entrance to the science hallway. Victor looks at the thing skeptically, but says nothing.

“This is it,” Charlie announces when they approach the correct door. It’s a simple enough door, marked only with a sign declaring it to be the chemistry storage unit and armed with a standard five-lever lock. “Dr. Doom’s lair. The entrance to Latveria.”

“This seems more like a Bruce Banner thing,” Dean whispers. He fiddles with the knob, feeling its weak structure give under his weight. “And even this place is easier to get into than Dr. Doom’s lair.”

Charlie pulls a face at him. “Banner’s a physicist.”

“Gamma rays are part of chemistry!” Dean argues. “Like von Doom’s sorcery has anything to do with it.”

“He’s also a _scientist,_ dumba – ”

“Children,” Victor interrupts, rolling his eyes so hard they’re likely to fall out of his head. “I’m working with children.”

He holds his hand out for the keys, which Castiel gives to him. He unlocks the lab and the four of them enter together.

“Spooky,” Charlie says, just as Castiel flicks the light on. She casts a sheepish glance at the other three.

“There should be some sort of inventory log,” Castiel states. “This is an old school, so it’s probably on paper rather than on a computer program. In the drawer maybe– got it.”

He runs a finger down the list, simultaneously checking the shelves for their corresponding chemicals. “Ferrocyanide… sodium carbonate…” he mutters as he works. After a short while, he lifts his head grimly.

“The chemicals required for the formation of cyanide are all missing about the amount necessary for a lethal dosage,” he says. “This is definitely where the poison was made.”

Charlie spreads her hands wide. “So that’s it then – the husband had to have done it. _Damn it._ ”

Victor cheers triumphantly and extends a hand gleefully in Charlie’s direction. She sighs, rolls her eyes, and reaches into her wallet, drawing out a ten-dollar bill. With a harrumph of loss, she slaps it down into Victor’s grasp.

“And _I’m_ a child?” Charlie asks sarcastically. Victor shrugs and pockets the bill.

“We’re on government salaries, man. You take what you can get.”

Castiel runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Something about this just doesn’t add up.”

“So you were wrong,” Victor shrugs. “Happens to the best of us.”

“It’s not that,” Castiel disputes. “The emotion behind the kill. There was betrayal there, and revenge. Grahame and his wife had been at odds for years. There was no passion between the two.”

Dean, who had so far been standing back with his arms crossed, speaks up now. “Good point. And besides the fact that Grahame’s a worse liar than fuckin’ Pinocchio, he’s too much of a nervous wreck to kill someone.”

Victor sighs resignedly and reaches into his bag for latex gloves. “Guess we’re looking around then.” He hands a pair around for everyone and begins inspecting the shelves.

Castiel, meanwhile, heads over to the door, and Dean follows.

“You got something?” Dean asks.

Castiel squints at the doorframe. “I’m not sure yet.” He crouches down, dusting over the floor with his hand, running his fingers along the doorjamb. When he reaches the steel lock pocket, he delicately feels around inside. He frowns.

“There’s something in here,” he murmurs. He leaps up and runs over to Victor’s bag, pulling out a pair of tweezers.

“Look,” he breathes, picking up something from the sticky dirt inside the pocket. It’s white and flexible, cracked on one edge and neatly rounded on the other.

“What is it?”

Castiel turns it so Dean can see the writing on it. It looks like the broken corner of a laminated surface. Printed in bold navy are the letters ‘ _OA_ ’, and under it, the beginnings of a bar code.

“Oak Ridge High School,” Dean murmurs. “It’s an ID card. Whoever it was used it to break into the room.”

“It’s a _student_ ID card,” Castiel says. “The teacher cards at this school are blue. The student ones are white.”

“It was a kid,” Dean huffs, rocking back on his heels. “Heavy.”

They take their discovery back to Charlie and Victor, who seal it in an evidence bag. The mood sours with the newfound information, weighted with thoughts of a high school student turned killer.

Charlie crosses her arms uncertainly. “Any way Grahame stole the ID to frame one of the students?”

Castiel shakes his head solemnly. “Students at this school are required to show school ID at all times. There’s no way one was stolen and it wasn’t reported.”

“Shit,” Charlie says, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Legal’s gonna have a field day with this one.”

They take one more cursory examination of the room, ensuring that they haven’t missed anything more. “Forensics should do their damn job better,” Victor growls as they pack up and exit. “That card’s gonna be the key to solving this thing.”

The four of them split up outside the school, Charlie and Victor back to the precinct to process and file the evidence and Castiel and Dean back to the brownstone.

“You really think a kid could’ve done this?” Dean asks, prodding at the gelatinous silence in the car. It trembles with his words.

Castiel inhales before answering. “I think anyone is capable of murder,” he says carefully, quietly, as though he is lost miles and miles deep within himself. “Given the right circumstances.”


	4. Chapter 4

             Dean wakes to a raucous crash downstairs. He swings himself out of bed, fumbling for his phone on instinct. The chill of the floor sends shivers up his spine as he makes his way across the room and down the hall. He tiptoes down the stairs, trying to move as slowly as possible. That is, until he finds the shattered glass and water spilled all across the floor.

            “Cas!” Forgetting that he is not wearing shoes, he sprints over the mess and nearly slams his head on the wall when he turns the corner into the living room.

            Castiel is sitting quite calmly on the cold hardwood floor, barefoot and cross-legged, sporting a ratty pair of blue plaid pajama pants and, well –

            “Holy shit, Novak, would it kill you to put on a shirt once in a while?”

            Something like disdain flickers across Castiel’s face. “Perhaps it wouldn’t kill me, but it might result in nausea, liver failure, chafing…  Why take the risk?”

            “Yeah, well, walking around shirtless results in severe douchiness. One in one Castiel Novaks suffer from the disease, it’s a real heartbreak.” Dean takes a second to calm his racing heart. “What the hell was that?”

            Castiel looks up at last, meeting Dean’s stare evenly. He shakes his head. “Don’t call me Cas,” is all he says. He turns his attention back to the papers in front of him, which build a stack as high as Dean’s knees. The skin beneath his eyes is darkly bruised and his scruff is coming in uneven.

            “Did you sleep at all?” Dean asks as he steps to the cabinets for a mug. “You look like hell, man.”

            “I’m trying to solve this case,” Castiel answers absently, handing Dean the one he’s holding with a frustrated sigh. “These are all of Matthew Grahame’s student files.”

            “Isn’t it illegal for you to have these? They’re like, private records and all.”

            For half a second, Castiel looks almost abashed. “I’m not exactly in the business of acquiring things _legally_ , Mr. Winchester.”

            Dean drops the file he’s holding as though it’s burned him and takes a step back from the scene, staring at Castiel. “You _stole_ these? That’s against the law!”

            “Laws!” Castiel seizes on the word, scrambling with his own conviction. “Laws are – I mean, they’re really just guidelines, aren’t they – really shouldn’t apply to certain situations – ”

            Dean bursts out laughing, catching Castiel completely off guard. The other man sputters into silence, and sits staring at Dean. “Why are you laughing?”

            “Are you kidding?” Dean chuckles, dramatically wiping at his eyes. “Listen to yourself! You’re fucking ridiculous, man.”

            Castiel faces Dean with a level glare that actually comes off as rather preposterous, considering he has a tuft of hair sticking straight up and a coffee stain on one knee of his pants. It makes him look like a pouting kindergartener, which serves to make Dean laugh even harder.

            Steadfastly ignoring Dean’s mirth, Castiel sniffs and turns back to the files. “I assume you’re going to tell Captain Singer what I’ve done?”

            Dean shakes his head slowly, still grinning. “I’m not, ‘cause you’re gonna do it yourself. Personally, I don’t really care, but if you end up finding something they’re gonna make it inadmissible in court and we’ll all be screwed.” He pours himself a cup of cold, leftover coffee and swallows it down. “Oh, and there’s the whole B&E thing you’ve just gotten yourself into.”

            Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. But warrants take too long.”

            “Getting out of jail takes even longer,” Dean tells him. “Put them back where you found them and get yourself a warrant. The police probably have enough evidence to convince a judge, if they bat their eyelashes enough.”

            Castiel makes a noncommittal grunting noise.

Dean turns his attention to the smashed glass still lingering at the end of the hall. “So, what happened there?”

            The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitches ever so slightly. “I got aggravated. The glass started it.”

            “Oh, I’m sure,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “I’m _sure_ it wasn’t Mr. Calm and Collected throwing a tantrum, oh no. Everyone knows Castiel Novak is as cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce.”

            Man, talk about ‘if looks could kill’. “First of all, I’m holding the fact that you listen to the Beastie Boys against you for the duration of your stay,” Castiel begins huffily. “Secondly, you’re lucky you weren’t here, or I’d have thrown you instead.”

            “Was that a threat, Novak? Do you promise, really and truly, to deliver? Cross your heart?”

            Castiel tosses a file at Dean, who only just manages to dodge it. “Look at the damn file, Winchester. It’s a possible lead. Tell Captain Singer to go _“Ch-Check It Out”._ ”

ℵ

            “What about this one?” Dean asks, helping the other officers search through the student files that had been replaced in their cabinets as if they had never been disturbed. He pulls out the one that Castiel had thrown at him earlier.

            “Christopher Woods?” Jo wonders, walking over from where she’s been working through the H’s. “What about him?”

            “He’s the only one of Grahame’s students who went to tutoring at his house instead of here at the school,” Dean explains, pointing to the scrawled note.

            Jo raises a brow skeptically. “You think a kid who needs intensive chemistry tutoring broke in a lab and synthesized cyanide all by himself?” 

            Dean huffs in exasperation. “You got a better suspect?”

            Rolling her eyes, Jo snatches the file from Dean’s hand and flicks through it. She calls out for Bobby. When he arrives, she hands the papers over to him.

            Bobby scans it before nodding to Jo. “Best a lead we’re gonna get right now. Bring him in.”

            Over Bobby’s shoulder, Dean sees Castiel smile. Minutely, and it’s really more of a smirk, but Dean grins right back at him.

ℵ

            This scrawny kid sitting at the interview room table has got to be the sorriest son of a bitch Dean’s ever seen. He is resting with his head hung low, eyes hooded, staring at the officers through his sparse blond lashes. He has one arm crossed over his chest, his other hand rubbing at his temple.

            “Christopher,” Jo begins, clearing her throat and leaning forward. “Do you know why we’ve brought you in today?”

            Woods shrugs with one shoulder, hunching in on himself.

            “Alexandria Grahame is dead,” Jo continues. “How well did you know Mrs. Grahame?”

            Woods licks his lips, his eyes shooting over to where Castiel stands in the shadowed corner of the interrogation room. Dean follows his gaze and nearly rolls his eyes at the ominous intensity that hangs around Castiel.

            “She was Mr. Grahame’s wife,” Christopher mutters. “That’s all I knew about her.”

            “She was never there when you went to tutoring?” Jo asks.

            “Nah, not usually. She worked a lot.” Christopher pauses. “I mean, I guess that’s what it was.”

            Jo glances over at Dean, who nods back to her in encouragement. “Mr. Woods, where were you between six and eight on the Tuesday before last?”

            Christopher frowns. “Home.”

            “Anyone who can verify that?”

            “My mom works and my dad’s out of the picture. No siblings.”

            “So, in other words,” Dean speaks up, raising his eyebrows. “You have no alibi.”

            Christopher meets Dean’s glare, red-eyed and shaky. “I never touched Mrs. Grahame, okay? She was my teacher’s _wife_ , for crying out loud.”

            “That didn’t stop you from having an affair with her,” Castiel says suddenly, stepping forward so he’s at Dean’s shoulder.

            Christopher’s eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”

            “I could say the same thing, Novak,” Jo says, quietly but with enough forceful intimidation to make Castiel’s eyes turn to her.

            “It makes sense,” Castiel responds smoothly. “We looked at your student records, Mr. Woods. You were acing your chemistry class until a very obvious point. I checked with the guest log in the office. The date your grades took a sudden liking for the sixth letter of the alphabet happens to be just after one Alexandria Grahame visited the school.”

            Christopher opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He rubs a hand over his stomach, grimacing slightly. “Yeah, I remember that. She came in to talk to Mr. Grahame about something. She had paperwork and shit and she pulled him out of class. But that had nothing to do with me. I just… y’know, chem’s hard.”

            “Certainly, it might be,” Castiel says, flashing a tight smile. “But not for you, Mr. Woods. You saw her and you had to get close. So you found a way to do so.”

            “Are you crazy?” Christopher protests. He turns to Dean and Jo. “Tell me he’s crazy.”

            “Not when it comes to this,” Dean answers with a mild grin.

            “May I see your student ID card, Christopher?” Castiel asks swiftly.

            After some hesitation, Christopher nods and reaches into his back pocket, taking out his wallet. He slips out the ID and slides it across the table. Whole and intact. Not a single trace of a chip. Dean’s stomach drops.

            Castiel, however, does not look perturbed. In fact, he looks pleased. “Oh, not that one. The one that broke off when you broke into the chemistry lab storage unit at your school.”

            Christopher swallows. “What are you talking about?”

            Castiel reaches into his own coat pocket, carefully laying the bag he pulls out next to the ID on the table.

            It contains a rectangular, laminated piece of plastic. An ID identical to Christopher’s, with his picture and name. And missing a piece from the corner. “I found something else when I went to the school, Mr. Woods,” Castiel explains quietly. “See, they are obligated to provide you with a new identification card in the case that it is broken. But instead of discarding the old one, they keep it on file. When you went in to have it replaced, they stored the broken one.”

            With shaking hands, Christopher picks up the bag and stares at its contents.

            “You broke into the storage unit. You synthesized the cyanide and poisoned Alexandria Grahame. Why? Did she reject your advances? Did she tell you not to bother?”

            “No,” Christopher says angrily. There are tears in his eyes. He drops the bag as though it has burned him and wraps his arms around his stomach. “No! She _loved_ me!”

            The weight of the pause after that admission nearly crushes Dean.

            “She loved me,” Christopher repeats, softly, as though trying to convince himself of the fact. “And I loved her.”

            “You killed her,” Dean says disgustedly. “You poison everyone you love?”

            Christopher’s lips tremble around the words he speaks. He lifts his hands to rake them through his hair. “I loved her.”

            “You have track marks,” Castiel says in realization. He takes two long strides around the table and grabs Christopher’s right arm, turning it over and down onto the metal. The soft skin at the juncture of his forearm and bicep is dotted with the tiny scars.

            “Was she your dealer?” Dean asks harshly. “Did she refuse to give you product one day? Is that what happened?”

            Christopher gives a wheezing sob. “No.”

            “No,” Castiel agrees. “The calluses on your fingers indicate you’re right-handed. You wouldn’t be injecting into your right arm. She did it for you.” He sits on the corner of the table. “She cared for you.”

            Dean is about to say something, probably snarky and condescending, but Jo slams her foot down on his. He stifles a groan and glares at her, to which she responds with a warning look.

            “She did,” Christopher answers faintly. “I knew from the moment she came into our classroom that day that she was special. She _smiled_ at me.”

            “That’s why you asked Mr. Grahame to allow you to be tutored at their house.”

            Christopher nods. “I told him… that my work schedule didn’t work with school sessions. It was only a couple days later that Alex invited me over when Mr. Grahame wasn’t home. She said… she said he was cheating on her, and that she was hurt, and she needed someone to help with her pain. I just wanted to help her. I just wanted her to be happy.”

            “So you let her shoot you up?” Dean asks, before he can stop himself. “Sure, that’s one way to get it done, I guess.”

            Something flickers in Christopher’s eyes. “She said we could explore the universe together. She was right.”

            Dean purses his lips, narrowing his eyes. “Uh, okay.”

            “Dean,” Castiel cautions lowly before continuing. “Mr. Woods, why did you kill her?”

            “I _–_ ” Christopher begins in desperation. “She didn’t want to leave Mr. Grahame. She said, the paperwork she had when she came into school that day, it was for a divorce, but she didn’t want to go through with it, and she said I was getting in the way of her marriage and she couldn’t – she couldn’t be with me anymore. But she couldn’t be with someone that would hurt her. That’s… that’s what I was there for.”

            He claws at his stomach. “I – I got the recipe for the – the cyanide. I broke into the lab and I made it. And I put it into one of the syringes when I went to her house. There’s a – a place under the floor we used to go to. It was our little… slice of paradise. I put her to rest.” Christopher chokes a sob. “I put her to rest in the same place where she showed me… everything.”

            Castiel dips his head. “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, thanks,” Jo cuts in immediately, standing. She pulls out handcuffs and goes around behind Christopher, lifting him into an upright position before fastening the metal links around his wrists. “Christopher Woods, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alexandria Grahame. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?

            Christopher mumbles out an assent.

            Before he is walked out of the room, Castiel catches Jo’s arm. “Better take him to the hospital before you incarcerate him. He’s been grabbing at his stomach and head in pain. It appears that he’s suffering from lead poisoning from the walls of the Grahame storage unit.”

ℵ

            “What’s gonna happen to him?” Dean asks, twenty minutes later, when he and Castiel walk into Bobby’s office.

            “He’s eighteen, so he’ll be tried as an adult, but his lawyer might try to cop an insanity plea. The way he’s actin’, I wouldn’t be surprised if the jury swings his way,” Bobby answers, settling down in his chair.

            “They won’t,” Castiel murmurs.

            It’s quiet after that.

            “Well, good job, boys,” Bobby says at last, lifting a coffee mug to them. “Probably could’ve done it without you, just ten times slower. So thanks.”

            “Really feelin’ the love, Bobby,” Dean answers drily. “Any time.”

            “That a promise, son?” Bobby peers at him. Dean gets the impression he is seeing right through his flesh.

            Glancing at Castiel, Dean shifts uncomfortably in his shoes. Castiel does not react, except for a hidden glimmer of interest in the depths of his eyes. “I don’t know, Bobby. I’m sorry.”

ℵ

            “You should continue to work on the cases,” Castiel says when they arrive at the brownstone.

            Dean gives a sigh. He’d thought they were done with the situation. “It’s not really my style.”

            “Like hell it’s not,” Castiel scoffs, and the force of his tone surprises Dean. “You’re good at this, Dean.”

            “I’m here to help _you_ , Cas, not the NYPD,” Dean retorts. “And I’m gonna be gone in five weeks anyway, so what’s the point of signing up for somethin’ I’m not gonna be able to commit to?”

            Castiel shakes his head, crossing his arms defiantly. “You could do something for the five more weeks you’ll be here. I know you’re afraid, because of what happened when you were a surgeon, but – ”

            Dean goes cold. “What the hell do you know about when I was a surgeon?”

            “It’s obvious, Dean!” Castiel shouts in frustration. “You don’t talk about your work in the hospital, you shut down completely. And that day that you were gone, when I was picking up my keys, I – your shoes were covered with remains of white birch, Douglas fir, and Chinese dogwood seeds, and the only place nearby where those three species coexist is Green-wood Cemetery.”

            Dean takes a step back from Castiel, breathing heavily. His heart is fluttering in his chest, straining weakly against Castiel’s words. “Don’t – ” he chokes out. “Don’t you _dare_ – ”

            “You lost a patient, Dean, and you feel responsible,” Castiel persists. “I understand that. More than you know. But here you have an opportunity to help people. To bring some justice to a chaotic world. Don’t you want a chance to redeem yourself?”

            Dean feels a traitorous tear strike a path down his cheek. “Shut up,” he whispers.

            “Don’t you want a chance to be saved?”

            In the subsequent silence, Dean contemplates many things. He remembers the blood on his hands, the sharp internal pain of his heart, the slow burn of whiskey down his throat. He pictures Sam’s face, blurred at the edges with time, and imagines what he’d say. Something along the lines of, _Are you stupid, Dean? Do it. What are you waiting for?_

“Okay,” Dean murmurs. He’d sat down sometime in the midst of his memories, and he grabs at the armrests of his chair now for support. “Okay. But then I’m gone.”

            Castiel puts a hand to his shoulder. “You don’t need to keep everything inside, Dean.”

            “Yeah, I do,” Dean snaps, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I do.”

ℵ

            The weeks go by and Dean and Castiel solve six more cases. Not all as big as their first one, but Dean feels a searing sense of triumph after each one.

            They settle into a routine. Dean finds out that Castiel is not quite as stick-up-the-ass as he’d first assumed, that he has good taste in music and horrible taste in everything else, that he keeps bees on the roof. “I collect the honey,” he’d defended himself when Dean had come running down the stairs after his first encounter.

            They normalize; Dean finds great comfort in the world he’s been plunged into.

The six weeks end and Dean fires a message to Castiel’s father, his final report. There’s no thank you, no courtesy response, and Dean doesn’t expect one. Still, there is a pull to this brownstone. Dean doesn’t want to leave.

            Castiel enters the kitchen one morning to find Dean sitting pensively at the table.

            “I’d say you look like you’re thinking, but I know how improbable that is,” Castiel tries to joke, but it falls flat. Dean doesn’t even look up at him.

            Disconcerted, Castiel slides into the opposite chair. “Dean?”

            “The six weeks are up,” Dean answers.

            After a pause, “Oh.” Castiel clears his throat. “Are you leaving then?”

            “Do you want me to?”

            “That’s not up to me,” Castiel says quietly. “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. But, given the choice,” he adds, even softer. “I would like you to stay.”

            Dean bites at his lip. “You know, we’d be like a superteam.”

            Slowly, Castiel smiles. “We already are.”

ℵ

            “We got a case for you boys,” Bobby’s voice crackles down the line. “Charlie’ll send you the address. Top priority, so anythin’ else you two got going on’s gonna have to wait.”

            “Well, hello to you too, Bobby,” Dean answers, sending a side-eyed glance at the phone on the table. He taps at the plastic terrarium in front of him, sending Sam the ladybug a silent greeting _._ “Always great to hear your lovely voice bright and early.”

 

            Castiel, sitting across from Dean, lets out a snort of laughter that is quickly muffled by his arm. “Oh yes, a true delight. ‘Good morning, _boys_! Dead body. Go. Solve. Roll over.’”

            Dean grins over the rim of his mug at Castiel. “‘Catch the killer in a less than a week, you’ll get a treat. Catch him in less than forty-eight hours, I’ll give you a belly rub.’”

            “Well, that’s a little unrealistic, Dean,” Castiel mockingly chides. “Our fearless Captain Singer here’s more likely to give a chin scratch than a belly rub.”

            There’s a heavy silence on Bobby’s end of the phone that makes Dean’s good humor evaporate very suddenly. The captain’s usual snappy sarcasm and dry wit is absent, leaving nothing but dread. “Just get down here.”

            The phone clicks and goes dead. Dean and Castiel lock gazes, blink, and immediately jump out of their chairs and toward the door.

ℵ

            “Your car is not at all conducive to Manhattan traffic,” Castiel notes mildly, twenty minutes into their voyage, as they inch along behind what looks like miles of transit.

            Dean shushes him immediately. He turns affronted eyes on Castiel. “You should be _honored_ to be sitting in this car. It’s a thousand times better than your lousy _Prius_. At least this baby’s got some class.”

            “At least my car has a fully functional lock,” Castiel retorts. “You live in New York City, Dean, not white picket fence suburbia.”

            Dean has no better comeback than to mutter obscenely under his breath about just where he thinks Castiel should stick that white picket fence, causing Castiel to laugh huffily. “I can think of something else I’d rather have there,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

            Dean’s mouth closes with an audible snap, and he feels a flush creep up the back of his neck and flood his cheeks. _God, if ever there was a prayer to grant me, this is it:_ he thinks, _For the love of You, don’t let Cas see me blushing like a fucking virgin._

The universe seems to smiling happily down on him today, because Castiel resumes his squinty little staring out of the window and Dean pointedly keeps his eyes on the road. Not that there was any need to – they’d come to a complete stop.

            If Dean is being completely honest with himself, it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. But he’s tried not to.

            Before, it was because Castiel was his client. It would have been unprofessional. Surely against his contract.

            _But he’s not your client anymore_ , that annoying little voice tells him sagely. _And you can do anything you want with him. To him._

            Dean raps his fingernails nervously along the steering wheel and sternly pulls himself away from that train of thought.

            There had been a few guys in his past. A few. He had suppressed a lot of it, growing up with a rigidly militant father who ran his house like a dictator. It had taken until junior year of college for Dean to fully accept that side of himself, without the inevitable guilt and self-hatred. He doesn’t know how long it’ll take John.

            _Sam had accepted it_. The thought comes unbidden, and with it a jerk of gut-wrenching emotion that has Dean doubling over in his seat.

            “Dean!” Castiel leans over the center console, grabbing at Dean’s back and shoulders. “Dean, come on.” Dean closes his eyes and focuses on the velvety redness of the backs of the eyelids, forcing himself to stop shaking. The tepid coffee he’d swallowed down that morning sloshes against the sides of his stomach, threatening to come back up.

            “’M fine,” Dean mumbles, gripping the steering wheel with painful intensity. “’S’not too bad.”

            Castiel’s hand slides up to the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, rubbing tender circles in the muscle there with his thumb. “Breathe, Dean.”

            Dean feels the coolness of Castiel’s exhale whisper across his cheek. He waits until the pounding at his temples fades, then lifts his head and opens his eyes. Twisting his face into what he hopes in an apologetic smile, he nods at Castiel. “I’m okay, Cas.”

            Worry still gleams in Castiel’s eyes, though he does lift his hand from Dean’s skin and nestles it back in his lap. “Do you need me to drive?”

            “Nah, it wasn’t a big deal.” The words sound empty to Dean. Judging by the way Castiel’s eyebrows furrow and the lines around his frown deepen, they have the same effect on him. “Anyway, now it’s time to be grateful for traffic. Haven’t even had to move an inch.”

ℵ

            “About time you two showed up,” Captain Singer grumbles as Dean and Castiel make their way down the hall to the apartment door.

            “Blame Blue Eyes over here for thinking that taking 42nd Street would get us here faster,” Dean tells Bobby conspiratorially, rolling his eyes.

            Castiel, walking two feet in front of them, _tut_ s loudly. “You didn’t have to listen to me, Dean. Really, you should have better judgment.”

            “Do you hear this guy?” Dean grouses. “It never stops. Bobby, can I move in with you?”

            “Not a fucking chance,” Bobby tells him warmly.

They enter the apartment then, and the jokes fade away. Dead in the center of the living room, staining the probably-really-expensive-because-isn’t-it-always-in-this-part-of-town hardwood flooring, is a large pool of blood.

            Charlie is wrapping up a conversation with a distraught-looking man in the kitchen. When she sees them walk in, she nods to the man and heads straight for them. “The landlord. He’s the one that discovered the blood. He says the apartment’s rented to some broker from Connecticut who’s here on a company lease. Assumed vic’s name is – ” She does a quick check of her notepad, which kind of off-sets the mood, considering the colorful panels of a Marvel comic printed on the cover – “Richard Daney.”

            Dean spares a glance at the blood. “Assumed vic? So no body?”

            Charlie shakes her head. “But that’s gotta be all twelve pints of blood. I mean, yuck, but it looks like the killer drained the guy dry before dumping the body. I’m thinking ritualistic, like, sacrifice to the Dark Lord or something.”

            Dean winces, and Charlie nods solemnly. “Yeah. And to that I say, _ugh_.”

            “Hear, hear,” Dean mutters. “Cas, you see anything?”

            Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean looks over his shoulder to find him gone from his previous position. Instead, he’s crouching by the blood, his back to Dean, with lines of tension in those normally sturdy shoulders.

            “Hey,” Dean says, walking over and touching an unsure hand to the nape of Castiel’s neck. “You okay?”

            Castiel stands stiffly. Dean’s hand slides away, swinging uselessly at his side. “The killer tied up the victim on a vertical operating table of sorts. Hung him and strapped him down, hooked and trussed up like a pig in a slaughterhouse, and slit his throat and major arteries until all the blood drained from him.”

            “Okay, I know you’re, like, a Professor X type mega genius or whatever,” Charlie interrupts, having joined the two on the other side of the room. She holds up a hand. “But, operating table? How can you tell?”

            Castiel glances dismissively over at her, gnawing at his lip. “The scratched grooves on the floor –” He points at them. “From the device’s legs, about the correct depth to have indicated a heavy weight was placed upon them. It was a device of the killer’s own design. When the body was completely devoid of blood, he dismantled the device, taking it and the exsanguinated corpse with him.”

            Charlie’s hand takes on a frantic waving quality. “Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. How the hell can you Sherlock Holmes all of that from a puddle of dead guy juice?”

            A thick, pungent silence falls over the room. Dean thinks that if this were a television show, this would be the moment with radically dramatic zooms and an overly enthusiastic piano scale.

            “I didn’t deduce anything, actually,” Castiel admits quietly, breaking the bubble of quiet with a stifled _pop._ “I’ve seen this before. Two years ago. In London.”


	5. Chapter 5

            “He goes by M,” Castiel tells the officers gathered in the precinct, hours later. They are standing around an evidence board, on which Jo and Charlie collaborated to tack up crime scene photos and a picture of Richard Daney. Dean thinks he explicitly remembers watching something exactly like this on an episode of CSI. “And he is, without a doubt, the most vicious murderer I have ever pursued.”

            “M?” Bobby questions, sounding skeptical. “That code or somethin’?”

            “He would send letters to the British police, signed with that single letter. They thought the letters were the ramblings of a madman; I thought differently. In fact, I imagine that he is not nearly as unstable as he would like us to believe.”

            Dean, who is leaning against Charlie’s desk, furrows his eyebrows. “What exactly did this guy do?”

            “In ten years, he murdered thirty-seven people that we know of. The victims had nothing in common, but they were all killed in the same way.” Castiel takes a deep breath. “You’ve seen his… eccentric methods. He drains them of blood and disposes of them in nearby bodies of water. Most of the time, they appear on shore.”

            Dean sees several officers rock back on their heels. He feels the same horror that they do. Thirty-seven is a high body count.

            “Did you ever catch a whiff of the guy?” Bobby asks.

            Castiel drops his head. He is acting differently, Dean realizes. He’s lived with the guy for two months now. He knows most of the little pieces that make up Castiel, and right now, one of them is upside-down and backwards. There is something in the set of his shoulders, in the lines of his face, that screams a shrill wrongness. “No,” Castiel admits. “He’s a professional. He never left a trace. One time I thought I was close, but… I was mistaken.”

            “So what are we looking for here?” Victor asks. “I mean, if we can’t track the guy and we can’t anticipate his next move, what exactly are we supposed to do?”

            Castiel looks helpless, floundering for an answer.

            “Keep your eyes peeled,” Dean says gruffly, shifting the officers’ scrutinizing focus from Castiel to himself. “Report anything suspicious.”

            “This isn’t the TSA, Winchester,” Victor retorts swiftly. “We got a whole city to look out for.”

            “Then you better do your fuckin’ job right,” Dean growls in retaliation, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

            Bobby’s phone begins to ring, and he shoots Victor and Dean warning looks before answering. He only speaks for a few seconds before hanging up and turning to his officers. “That was the Coast Guard. They’ve got a body. Transportin’ it now.”

            Victor still looks as though he’s ready to fight Dean, but Bobby steps in before anything more can be thrown either way. “Down, boys. We’re supposed to be workin’ together here, not snapping at each other’s throats. Henriksen, go ask Interpol nicely for the old case files. Maybe there’s somethin’ that Scotland Yard missed.”

            “There isn’t,” Castiel whispers viciously. Dean steps surreptitiously forward in silent support.

            Bobby’s face is dark and serious. He doesn’t look angry with Castiel, only understanding, as though he knows precisely what it is that Castiel is hiding, what it is that Dean is only just beginning to scratch at. “Granted,” he says. “But you’re the one who says sometimes it’s worth lookin’ at things with new eyes. It’s nothin’ personal, kid.”

            Castiel doesn’t answer, but Dean sees his chest heave with an angered breath.

            “You got anything else for us, Bobby?” Dean asks hurriedly, wanting to get them both out of there before Castiel explodes.

            Bobby fixes him with a stony stare. “You two can go check on Benny’s autopsy when they deliver the body. We’re just about done here. I’ll wrap it up.”

ℵ

            Benny is hard at work with a pair of pruning shears when Dean and Castiel enter the office.

            With an ugly crack, Benny cuts through the last of the ribs and looks up, immediately donning a broad smile. “Dean! What brings you round my neck of the woods, brother?”

            Castiel had never really liked being in the coroner’s office, so in the past weeks, Dean had played the middleman between the body and the consultant. He finds himself in Benny’s room often, and after the first few turns of awkward tension, they’d begun to relax around each other. Benny’s a good guy, Dean had realized. It’s an easy sort of friendship.

            Dean grins back. “Not the smell, that’s for sure.” He wrinkles his nose. “What the hell _is_ that?”

            “Rottin’ bowels,” Benny responds brightly. “Just like Christmas.”

            Dean snorts and walks over to observe the body. “Poor son of a bitch,” he says. “Hell of a way to go.”

            “You can say that again,” Benny says. “Exsanguination’s not exactly the prettiest death.”

            “So that’s definitely cause of death?”

            Benny nods, pointing to the slashes on the man’s body. “No way there’d be that much blood at the scene if he hadn’t been alive when these were made. A cut to each brachial artery and another to the carotid. Killer knew what he was doin’. I’d guess the time between the first cut and death was probably around twenty minutes.”

            Dean runs his tongue over his teeth, forcing down the shudder that runs through him. “What about the whole, uh – ” He glances at Castiel, who is standing with hunched shoulders and a bowed head behind him. “Operating table thing? Any way to figure that out?”

            Benny runs his hand over a purple-red coloration along Daney’s legs. “Livor mortis along here tells us he was upright when he died. But there’s none on his back, meanin’ he was lyin’ on it too. Fits the bill.”

            “How much blood did he lose?”

            “Almost all of it. He would’ve reached severe hypovolemic shock when he lost half of it. Death wouldn’t have been far behind, but it takes blood a good long while to coagulate enough to stop pumpin’.”

            Dean gives a low whistle. “Well, fuck. Wonder what that must’ve been like.”

            “What anyone would expect, really,” Benny tells him. “Life force drainin’ away like that. Honestly, he’s lucky the guy cut arteries and not veins, would’ve been worse for him. He would’ve passed out early on, pretty much floated away. Wouldn’t’ve felt much of anythin’.”

            A loud clatter sounds from behind Dean. He whirls around to see Castiel white-knuckling the edge of the operating table, off which several tools have fallen.

            “Cas?” he asks in alarm. “You okay?”

            Castiel does not answer. Dean hears him breathing heavily, sweat gathering at his temples. His eyes are fixed on the limp body of Richard Daney, and he doesn’t seem to be able to tear himself away.

            Dean scurries over, grabbing Castiel’s arm and looping his own around the other man’s waist. “Benny, a little help?”

            The coroner expertly slips off his gloves and runs to aid them.

            “I think he’s having a panic attack,” Dean says, clapping his free hand to the side of Castiel’s face. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me? Hang on a second. We’re getting you out of here.”

            Together, they lug a near nonresponsive Castiel up the stairs and out into the lobby area. Dean feels him shaking through his clothes. With a growing sense of distress, Dean sets him down in an empty room and crouches down by him.

            “Get me a wet towel and some water,” he asks of Benny, already running soothing hands across the sensitive pressure points of Castiel’s body. There is life returning slowly to his eyes. “That’s it, Cas. Stay with me.”

            When Benny returns, Dean dabs the towel at Castiel’s clammy forehead and hands him the glass of water.

            “I’m fine,” Castiel insists, after draining the glass.

            Dean scoffs. “Yeah, you’re the picture of health. Come on, man, what happened back there?”

            Castiel’s eyes flash to Benny. Dean presses his lips together. “Benny, some privacy?”

            Benny salutes them and walks away. Dean turns back to Castiel and raises his eyebrows. “Better?”

            Castiel stands, albeit shakily, gripping the glass in his hand tightly. “I’m fine,” he repeats firmly, gently pushing Dean’s hands away. Dean is reminded, vividly, of his first collapse in the interrogation room with Matthew Grahame. He feels the same sort of frustration now that Castiel had displayed then.

            Stiffly, Castiel inches around Dean and walks toward the exit. Dean looks after him, slowly drying towel in hand, and begins to think.

ℵ

            The days pass, and Castiel worsens. He shuts himself up in his room for hours, not answering when Dean comes by to check on him, and only emerges when his hunger gets the best of him. Dean tries to talk to him, but Castiel either insists that he’s fine or flat-out ignores him.

            Dean finds the number in a long-forgotten file thrown in the corner of his room. There are some half-scribbled notes in them, about Castiel, brief glances into his past. _“Likes to call himself a detective,”_ one says, _“but he’s more of a peacocking idiot.”_ In minute letters under the contact number, he reads, _“Only call in case of emergency. If you believe it’s an emergency, kindly double check.”_

Dean finds he hadn’t read these as thoroughly as he probably should have.

            “Jeez,” he murmurs to himself. “Father of the Year award to this guy.”

            He turns the file over in his hands, phone by his side, contemplating the pros and cons of going through with this idea. From what little Castiel says about his family, Dean supposes he doesn’t get along well with them. But Dean has been hanging around the guy for two months, and he doesn’t have many people he can get close with. No one knows a person like their family does, he guesses, and he presses the numbers into the screen before he can stop himself.

            A sultry female voice answers on the first ring. “Angelus Technologies, London offices, how may I help you?”

“Yeah, sorry to bother you, but could I speak to Mr. Novak?” Dean asks into the phone, pacing around his room.

            “Mr. Novak is _busy,_ ” the woman on the other line answers irritably. “You can leave a message.”

            “This is urgent.”

            “It always is with Mr. Novak.”

            This woman on the other line sounds far too tetchy for her own good, and Dean is starting to feel annoyed. “It’s about Castiel,” he says, hoping for some sort of reaction to the name.

            He immediately hears the click of another person joining the call. “Bela, darling, leave this one to me,” the smooth voice of a man says.

            Dean hears the woman – Bela – huff a little. “ _Certainly_ , Mr. Novak,” she says at last, feigning sweetness. “Good luck.” She hangs up.

            “Mr. Novak, I’m – ” Dean starts, but is interrupted before he can continue.

            “Dean Winchester, I assume,” Mr. Novak says. “Could you skip to the part where you tell me why you’re calling about my little brother?”

            Dean blinks. “Balthazar?” he tries, recalling the name from a long-ago conversation in a diner.

            “Someone give the man a prize,” Balthazar answers. “Do you truly believe my father would give my brother’s sober companion a way to directly contact him? I was under the impression your service with my brother had ended several weeks ago. I’ll ask again, why are you calling about him?”

            Is there something about the English accent, Dean wonders, that just automatically turns people into smarmy dicks? “Yeah, uh, the… service ended. But I stuck around after, and – ”

            “Why?”

            Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Because I felt like it. Look, Balty, if you wanna know why I’m calling, you have to let me talk.”

            Balthazar is quiet. Then, “Well, what are you waiting for? Continue.”

            Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas had an episode today. We were talkin’ about a new case we just got handed, and he just freaked. It hasn’t happened before, but I was wondering if maybe it had something to do with his old habits. He mentioned the case was something he’d worked on before. You know anything about it?”

            “Which case was that?”

            “Some sick son of a bitch called M.”

            Balthazar swears. “Of course I know about that case.”

            “Okay, yeah, what’s up with that?”

            He receives silence. “Balthazar, seriously. Cas is in a bad way. I’m just tryin’ to figure out the best way to help him.”

            “That case, that _mongrel,_ is the reason Castiel fell into drug use.”

            Dean glances at the door, behind which he has just heard Castiel’s footsteps. He waits until they fade away, and then sits on the edge of his bed. “What the hell happened?”

            Balthazar hesitates. “I shouldn’t tell you, not without Castiel’s knowledge.”

            “I’m his friend,” Dean protests, bubbling with defiant anger. “And it’s my job to worry about him. I deserve to know.”

            “It’s not your job anymore,” Balthazar tells him. His voice is quieter now, less spiteful, which only serves to make Dean more irritated. “Listen, Dean, I appreciate your care for my brother. But I can’t do a damn thing here. He doesn’t particularly like me.” He hesitates. “Castiel doesn’t have many friends. One, I’d gather. He’d listen to you.”

            Dean narrows his eyes. “You think I haven’t tried? The guy shuts down. You know what happened, you can talk to him.”

            “What, do you want me to pack up, leave my business, visit the States for a one-on-one with my estranged, drug addict of a brother?” Balthazar laughs breathily.

            “Uh, yeah.”

            “Oh, that’ll convince me,” Balthazar replies sarcastically.

            Dean bristles. “You’re an asshole, Novak,” he snaps. “But you’re Cas’ brother, and if anyone can get through to him, it’s you. So yeah, I’m telling, not asking. I know he doesn’t like his family, but right now, he needs your fucking help. Wake the hell up, will you?”

            When Balthazar speaks, his voice is cold. “Don’t presume to know my brother better than I do.”

            “At least I’m _trying_ to know him,” Dean shoots back, struggling to keep himself from shouting. This guy’s a fucking _dick_ , he thinks, with his self-righteous, holier-than-thou shit. “I’m not the one who’s throwin’ him to the dogs. You guys are related. No matter what happens, nothin’s gonna change that, and you better get used to it. I don’t care what went down between you, you’re fucking _brothers._ ”

            Balthazar is silent for a few heartbeats. He whips out a curt, “I’ll be there in the morning,” and hangs up.

ℵ

Dean wakes to the sound of a slamming door.

            He gets up out of bed, still slightly foggy with sleep, and shuffles downstairs to encounter Castiel massacring a piece of toast with a butter knife. “Hey, now, what did that poor thing ever do to you?” Dean asks.

            If rage were visible, Castiel would be radiating. He spears the toast, nearly slicing it in half, and slams the knife down on the kitchen counter. “It appears we’ve picked up a stray,” he hisses.

            Just then, a knock echoes through the entrance hallway. “Dean, would you do me a favor and slap my dear brother out of his temper tantrum? I would, but I think the door broke my nose.”

            Castiel immediately whirls on Dean. “Did you know about this?”

            “I might’ve, uh,” Dean backs up, well out of Castiel’s swinging range. “I might’ve been the one that called him.”

            Castiel’s eyes widen in betrayal. He clenches his fists, glaring between Dean and the door to the brownstone. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”

            “I thought it might help,” Dean throws his hands up in the air. “So sue me. You’ve been actin’ off since the crime scene, and you won’t tell me why.”

            “So you called _him_?” Castiel says in outrage. “Dean, in what world does that make sense?”

            “In the one where I have to watch out for your sorry ass and you won’t let me!”

            Castiel freezes. “I wasn’t aware that I was a helpless creature in need of shepherding.”

            Dean groans, running a frenzied hand through his hair. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

            There is a distant thump. Dean thinks maybe Balthazar has just hit his head against the door. “Right, well, this is truly entertaining, but d’you think one of you could open the fucking door? I’m freezing all my good bits off here.”

ℵ

            The tension in the air could probably power the entire Eastern seaboard.

            “Lovely home you’ve found here,” Balthazar says into the silence, gripping at the handle of his suitcase. “Do I smell sandalwood? Castiel, are you wearing cologne?”

            Castiel stares at Dean. “Get him out.”

            “Castiel,” Balthazar pleads. “Your friend here taught me a lesson last night, one I admit I haven’t paid much to in too many years. I’m not here to antagonize you. I’m here for _you_.”

            “Can you be somewhere else for me?”

            Balthazar turns his eyes to Dean. Dean feels inexplicably trapped, like Odysseus’ ship between Scylla and Charybdis. “And what did you say, Dean? That he’d listen to me?”

            “I thought he would,” Dean snaps. “It’s not my fault you two treat each other like this. You’re family. It’s time to man up and act like it.”

            “How’s Father, Balthazar?” Castiel asks suddenly. There is a sharp coolness to his voice.

            Balthazar smiles drily. “Do you think I’ve heard from him more than you have? You know all too well that our dear daddy isn’t one for Saturday football matches and walks along the beach.”

            Castiel’s lips twitch. “You always were his favorite pet.”

            Balthazar laughs outright at that. “Oh, Castiel,” he sighs, but the look on his face is less amused and more bitter. “You never knew Father at all.”

ℵ

            Dean hastens to wrap up the conversation after that. Balthazar leaves, claiming he has a room rented at a local hotel. He and Castiel do not bid farewell, and Dean does not try to make them. Instead, he sits down heavily on one of the couches across from Castiel.

            “Alright, let me have it,” he says resignedly.

            Castiel blinks at him. “Have what?” He sounds tired, Dean thinks. He despises the sound. He hopes, against all better judgment, that Balthazar will be able to tinker with Castiel’s puzzle pieces and fix the one that’s out of place.

            Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that. You know exactly what I’m talking about. This whole Balthazar mess. I never should’ve called him.”

            “No, you shouldn’t have.” But that is all Castiel says, and Dean burns with the urge to shake him into a proper reaction. _What the hell are you playing at, Cas,_ Dean thinks.

            “That’s it?” Dean imitates Castiel’s low, gravelly voice. “‘No, you shouldn’t have’?”

            “What do you want me to say, Dean?” And _there’s_ the ire bleeding into his words. “That I’m angry that you called one of the last people on Earth that I would want to see? That you told him about me, about what you think you know about me, without once regarding what that might do to me? That you decided to take matters into your own hands, matters that had nothing to do with you to begin with? Is that it, Dean?”

            “Something about this case is messing you up, man. Now, I don’t know what it is, because you don’t want to tell me. And, whatever, if you seriously don’t trust me enough to spit out whatever’s on your mind, that’s not my problem. But you have to talk to _someone_ , Cas, or you’re gonna explode. He’s your brother. He knows you.”

            Castiel flinches. “He stopped being my brother a long time ago,” he murmurs. “We stopped being family long before any of this – ” He gestures at himself. “ – happened.”

            “Before any of _what_ happened?” Dean is shouting now, brimming, boiling, overflowing with frustration. “ _What_ aren’t you telling me, Cas?”

            “What aren’t you telling _me?_ ” Castiel shoots back, just as fiercely. “Don’t you dare pretend that I’m the only one keeping secrets.”

            Dean sputters on his next words, face burning. “That’s _different._ That’s not affecting the way I work.”

            Castiel laughs in disbelief, but it chokes in his throat. “How many attacks have you had, Dean? How many nightmares?”

            “Too damn many,” Dean retorts. He is blistering now, under the force of Castiel’s words. Images roll and tumble behind his eyes: a blinding smile, a pair of hazel eyes, sitting by his side on family road trips. _Brother_ , he thinks, and the image is split between Sam and Balthazar, Dean and Castiel, and he thinks, _keep him close. You’re lucky he’s even here to bug the shit out of you._ “That’s why I’m trying to save you from going through the same fucking thing.”

            “I told you, I don’t need you to protect me, Dean.”

            “Yeah? Maybe not, but _something’s_ going on with you, Cas, and – _._ ”

            “It’s _her!_ ” Castiel lashes out abruptly, aiming not for Dean but for the wall behind him. There is a loud, resounding crack. The seconds after the echo fades are plump with the crashing sound of a crumbling reality.

            Dean sees it now, he sees it all – he sees the vulnerability that Castiel had tried so hard to hide, the glazy film that had descended over his eyes when he’d caught sight of Richard Daney’s blood-drained body. He sees the flames of panic etched in the grooves of his face, the same numbness and terror that take over Dean’s own body when he remembers – but no, this is Castiel’s time.

            Castiel, who stands with his back to Dean now. Who is visibly trembling, as though his bones are falling apart and struggling to knit themselves back together before he collapses completely. Who, when he turns, has so much emptiness in the depths of his red-rimmed eyes that Dean drowns in it, in the void of it all.

            Castiel sits and sinks into the cushions of a living room couch that is as worn and tired as he is. Dean stands still as stone and listens to the shakiness of Castiel’s erratic breath. Deep beneath his skin, at the center of his skeleton, the itching begins, faintly, once more.

ℵ

            “Who was she?” Dean asks after a while. He doesn’t approach Castiel. He doesn’t move at all.

            Castiel takes a long time to answer, and when he does, it’s weary and hoarse. His voice sounds like he’s gargled with rocks. “Her name was Meg,” he begins hesitantly. “Meg Masters. I lost her.”

            The simple way he says it, sounding so bland and empty, is a dagger to Dean’s chest. “What happened?” Dean licks his lips nervously.

            He thinks Castiel’s laugh probably catches them both by surprise. It’s a laugh that’s been dragged over broken glass. “My line of work isn’t exactly _safe_ , Dean. It is not absurd to assume that most of the criminals I’ve caught want me and the people I care about dead.”

            Castiel gives a leathery gasp, and Dean can’t take it anymore. He takes a seat by Castiel, close enough that their knees are touching, and fixes his gaze on Castiel’s hands, which are trembling slightly. One of them is bruised at the knuckles, rubbed raw from its contact with the wall.

            “M was a monster,” Castiel huffs. “You’ve seen the things he does. He had realized the extent to which I was aiding the police, and that made things personal.”

            Castiel puts a hand to his temple, running his slender fingers through the curled hair there. “It was my fault. I was too arrogant, too self-assured. She was taken. She was killed. They never found her body, but they found her blood.” Castiel gives a flat smile, and the dagger in Dean’s chest twists sharply.

            “What was she like?” Dean asks quietly, after a stretched taffy pull of silence.

            Castiel’s mouth looks fish-hooked at its corners, tugging his lips down in a heavy frown. “It doesn’t matter. She’s nothing now.”

            The quiet settles heavily on Dean’s shoulders, pressing him into the cushions beneath him, into the floor, through the earth and out the other side and pushing him into space. He runs his fingers over the back of his hand. There is something buzzing underneath his skin, yearning to tug itself free from where it’s branded his heart.

            “I lost someone too,” he says at last. He admits it to the open air, where it hangs, dripping and viscous, over his head.

Castiel takes the words and swallows them. “Yes. I already knew that.”

            “No, you don’t know everything,” Dean answers, and the thickness in his throat makes him sound like he’s speaking around a mouthful of cotton. “I didn’t just lose a patient, I lost…” He hasn’t attributed the word to himself in so long, has tried not to think about what he had and what is now gone. “I lost my brother.”

            Castiel lifts his head at that, his eyebrows dipping towards his lashes. He does not look horrified, or repulsed with Dean. More confused. He doesn’t ask Dean to elaborate, but Dean does anyway, because he had built a dam up so carefully inside of him but he has just pulled a brick from the bottom and everything is toppling over and flooding him completely.

            “I lost my brother, because I fucked up during a procedure and froze up too badly to save him,” Dean says. He is shaking, his body and his voice and his vision and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, where to look or how to act. A warm hand closes around his and he is too weighted down to tear his own away and there are drops of wet _something_ streaking dirty paths down his cheeks but he cannot, for the life of him, find the strength to wipe them away.

            “I promised he’d be okay and he _trusted_ me and I let him down.” His voice is unrecognizable, grating. “I killed Sam.” There it is, those three ugly words that Dean has refused to say aloud in what feels like lifetimes. He knows his father thinks them when he sees Dean. He knows his father hates him for it but pretends he doesn’t. He knows he hates himself for it, and is candid with that hatred.

            “Every surgery has risks,” Castiel whispers, and the gentleness with which he speaks is enough to rip a canyon through Dean’s chest, split him right in two. “He must’ve known what he was getting into.”

            “It wasn’t the goddamn surgery, it was _me,_ ” Dean spits out. “I should’ve refused, no respectable surgeon operates on his own fucking family. I knew it was gonna happen, I fucking _knew,_ and I put him on the table anyway and I fucking _killed him._ ”

            Castiel tightens his grip. He is very quiet. Dean can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I killed Meg,” he says. “Or I might as well have. I led that bastard right to her door.”

            Dean breaks into a hysterical laugh. “We’re a couple of goddamn wrecks.”

            “No,” Castiel corrects him. “We’ve made mistakes, but we are not ruined. And there is one way we can redeem ourselves.” He stands rather suddenly, making Dean nearly jump out of his skin. “Let’s go, Winchester.”

            “What? Go where?”

            There is a dangerous gleam in Castiel’s eye. He is smiling all too cheerily, looking about ready to burst out into song, but it does not pass higher than his cheeks. For a moment, Dean feels chilled to the bone. That is a poisonous, treacherous look, all canines and eyebrows. There is fire dancing behind that mien, a desperate and thirsty blaze, and Dean is afraid.

            “To catch a killer.”


	6. Chapter 6

            A hush settles over the precinct like a blanket when Dean and Castiel enter. They must’ve heard of the attack Castiel had had in Benny’s office, for their eyes are glued to him.

            Castiel, however, is doing his best to ignore them. He strides purposefully to Victor’s desk. “Have you received the old files from Interpol yet?”

            Victor, to his credit, looks untroubled. He nods to a central table a few feet away, where a stack of files in various stages of falling apart has taken up residency. “They’re digitized too. Let me know if you need the login.”

            “This should be fine,” Castiel murmurs, running a hand over the manila folders. He lifts the monstrous pile easily, prompting a unanimous eyebrow raise from the rest of the room, and carries it into the file room.

            Charlie immediately turns wide eyes on Dean. “Is he okay?”

            “He’s fine,” Dean assures. He knows it’s not his place to tell anyone what Castiel has revealed to him, regardless of the growing nut in his stomach. “He just wasn’t feeling too good.”

            Jo sidles up, tucking a stray blond lock behind her ear. “He’s never acted like that before,” she mutters, and even she sounds concerned. “Hard to think Mr. Roboto over there could be anything other than just that.”

            “He’s not so bad,” Dean chastises. “Once you’ve lived with him for a while, you kinda have to find a way to get along with him.”

            The hammer drops, and Dean realizes suddenly that he’s made a terrible mistake.

            Charlie’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “You _live_ with him?” she squeaks. “Like, _live_ with him? You’re – ”

            “No!” Dean hastens to cover up his blunder. “No, calm down. Get your head out of the gutter, it’s not like that.” _It could be_. The thought slips in before he can stop it and he shoves it away. “We’re just roommates. Easier, y’know? New York’s an expensive city. We don’t get paid much for working – ”

            “Yeah, why _are_ you working here?” Victor cuts in suddenly, crossing his ankles on top of his desk. “I mean, Novak had done a couple cases here and there, but always on his own. And then out of nowhere…” He eyes Dean up and down. “You’re pretty inseparable.”

            “We’re _friends,_ ” Dean says, cheeks burning. _He loves someone else._ “Who cares why I’m working here? I’m doing more for the city than you are, sittin’ around on your ass all day.”

            Victor stiffens. “Watch yourself.”

            “Ditto,” Dean snaps.

            The opening of a door catches both their attention. Castiel sticks his head out of the file room, looking distinctly unruffled, as though Dean isn’t seconds away from launching himself, claws first, at Victor’s face. “Dean, will you help me?”

            Slowly, Dean composes himself. He shoots a dirty look at Victor. “Gladly,” he says, and walks to the file room.

ℵ

            Castiel keeps looking at him. Dean catches him in the act, feeling a prickling on his neck and glancing over only to have Castiel drop his eyes quickly.

            It’s starting to get on his nerves. “What?” he asks at last. It comes out meaner than he intended.

            Castiel’s fingers pause where they are marking his reading. He taps the words on the page. “You shouldn’t let them bother you.”

            Dean blanches, and his stomach goes into free fall. He hadn’t been aware that Castiel could hear them, although he guesses it makes sense now that he thinks about it. It’s not as though the walls are made of concrete, after all.

            “They don’t,” Dean mumbles. “Just wanted to get the facts straight.”

            Castiel gives a jerky nod. “And what facts are those?”

            Dean presses the palms of his hands to his eyes. “Look, we’ve already gotten into one fight today, I’m not about to start another. Don’t worry about it, okay? Henriksen’s just an asshole looking for a bone to pick with me.”    

            “Okay,” Castiel says, turning back to the file. He scratches at a stain on the paper. “But if you’d like to move out, to make things simpler for you, I – ”

            “Shut up, Cas,” Dean interrupts. “Long as I’m welcome, I’m stayin’. Sorry.”

            Dean can’t tell, but he thinks Castiel smiles. “You’re always welcome.”

            “Good, ’cause the commute from my apartment to here every day would be a bitch,” Dean says, because the moment is getting far too stifling for him, especially after the events from earlier.

            “I never asked you,” Castiel says, changing the subject. “What did the agency say when you told them you were leaving the program?”

            Dean shrugs. “They tried to change my mind. I said I wouldn’t. We’ve saved lives, Cas. Gotten murderers off the street. That’s worth somethin’.”

            “Yes, it is,” Castiel agrees. He lowers his voice to a soft murmur, so Dean has to strain himself to hear. “Many times, that’s the only thing that made withdrawal bearable. That the reason I was trying to get better was so I could stop…” He swallows. “Stop what happened to Meg from happening to anyone else.”

            Dean is trying to read the file in front of him, but his head is stuffed full of all of Castiel’s words. “That’s why you fell, huh?” he asks quietly. “’Cause she died?”

            A muscle jumps in Castiel’s jaw. “I blamed myself. I blamed Scotland Yard. I blamed M, I even blamed Meg. I had let everyone down, and in turn everyone failed me. I was angry for a very long time, and I wanted to know what had happened, where I had gone wrong. Opiates made things very clear for me. Clearer than they had been in years, but it wasn’t enough. So I took more, until – until I couldn’t stop.”

            Dean reaches over and grabs Castiel’s hand, as the latter had done for him mere hours before. He wants to say something, but the ball in his throat won’t let him speak. For the first time in his life, he curses it. Instead, he wraps his fingers around Castiel’s, and hopes it is enough.

            Castiel’s hand seizes around his, a lifeline for a drowning man. Dean thinks it’s a pretty shitty lifeline, with frayed ropes and a hole in the bottom. Castiel treats it like the hand of God. He opens his mouth to say something more, blue eyes locked on green, and –

            The door opens once more and Victor, Jo, and Charlie enter.

            Dean jumps, banging his knee on a nearby box, and releases Castiel’s hand. He swears, holding his bruised knee, and glares at the intruders. Victor smirks and Dean clenches the hand that had been holding Castiel’s into a fist, wishing he could punch that smug look off his face.

            “May we help you?” Castiel asks calmly.

            Charlie speaks before the tension in the air chokes them all. “We were, uh, talking, and we decided that we – that is, _all_ of us – _together –_ ”

            “This precinct is built on one thing,” Jo interjects. “Teamwork. None of us would be here without the support of every single other person in this building. You two are part of the team now. Family looks out for each other. So we gotta stop fighting and shitting on each other if we want to solve this case. Deal?”

            The smirk drops from Victor’s face, replaced with a grudging smile. He extends a hand to Dean. “Sorry,” he says. “I was out of line, man. You can beat me up for it when I’m off-duty. Truce?”

            Dean stares at him for a long time before hesitantly taking his hand and shaking it. “Teamwork, huh?”

            “Teamwork,” Jo agrees. “Meaning that – ” She takes some of the files from the stack and plops down against the wall, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. “We got stuff to do.”

ℵ

            After a few hours and a unanimous complaint that the file room is _far_ too cramped for everyone to fit comfortably, they move to the Roadhouse Diner. Ellen clears the bar for them, allowing them a massive workspace.

            “Alright, what do we have?” Charlie asks, opening an old sketchbook to a blank page. “First victim?”

            Dean raises his hand. “Here. Victoria Grange, 27, killed October 4th, 2005. Bristol, England. She was a mother of two and a sales rep for some car company.”

            Charlie jots down the information in one corner of the paper. “Okay, next.”

            They go through all of their files, until all of the victims and their information are written on the paper. By last call, they’ve drawn all possible connections that they could find between them, but the closest link they find is two victims that worked for the same company under different branches and on opposite sides of the country.

            “Why here?” Victor asks in frustration, glaring down at the files. “These murders all happened in England, right? And now, out of nowhere, he’s hittin’ the States. What brought him here?”

            “Cas,” Dean says, prickling with surprised dread. They all look at him. “I mean, think about it. Cas, you were working with Scotland Yard during most of these attacks. You come here and dead bodies start turning up here too? He must’ve followed you.”

            Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jo and Charlie exchange a glance.

            Castiel frowns. “It’s not impossible,” he admits at last. “But why me?”

            “He probably thinks you’re the only one who could catch him,” Dean suggests. “So he wants you out of the way.”

            “Then why would he not come after me directly?” Castiel asks. No one has an answer for him. Sighing, he slips off the barstool and stands. “It’s late. I think I’ve had enough of this for tonight. Dean?”

            Dean has already turned his attention back to the page in Charlie’s sketchbook. “Nah, thanks. I’m gonna stick around, see if I can figure any more of this out.”

            Charlie, Jo, and Victor murmur their assent, so Castiel dips his head to them and exits. The moment the door swings shut, all three pairs of eyes fly to Dean.

            He looks up. “What?”

            They look markedly uncomfortable. Charlie is the first to speak. “Dean, you know… this is all a little too coincidence-a-freaky, y’know?”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “She’s talkin’ about how soon as your buddy started making noise over here, the body count started rising,” Victor says quietly. “Ever occur to you maybe there’s a reason for that?”

            It takes a second for the implication to set in. “You can’t think – ” Dean scoffs. “You think _Cas_ is the one behind all this shit?”

            “Think about it, Dean,” Jo says. “The murders started just after he started working with Scotland Yard. He moves, they stop. He starts working here, they start again.”

            “No,” Dean answers, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have told us about the connection to the old cases if he’d done them.”

            Victor sends him a look full of pity. “We cross-check against old cases anyway. It would’ve come up eventually, and then he’d look even more suspicious if we found out he’d worked them and never come forward about it. It makes sense, man.”

            “ _No,_ it doesn’t,” Dean retorts. “I live with the guy, okay? And I’m pretty good at reading people. He wouldn’t just go around _murdering_ almost forty people. That’s not Cas.”

            “Isn’t it, though?” Jo says. “I mean, how much do you really know about him, Dean? From what I can tell, he’s not exactly the type to go around sharing his feelings or whatever. He’s got a lot of secrets. He could easily keep this one.”

            _I think anyone is capable of murder,_ Dean remembers. _Given the right circumstances._ “No,” he says again. “Trust me, this isn’t Cas, alright? I do know him, better than you do, better than any of you. Come on, guys, this is _Cas._ ”

            “Dean, we don’t know who ‘Cas’ _is_ ,” Charlie says quietly. “We know nothing about him. Not his past, not his family, hell, not even his birthday. We just know he walked into the precinct one day and started working.”

            “Bobby knows him,” Dean argues. “They worked together on an old case.”

            “Once. Five years ago,” Jo reminds him. “And Bobby’s got tunnel vision when it comes to murders. It wouldn’t have been easy to get under his nose, but Castiel’s got the skills.”

            Dean can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s ridiculous to him that they are actually suspecting Castiel – _Cas_ , who has solved murders, who has saved lives, Cas who keeps bees on the roof and likes honey on his toast and owns a fucking _Prius_ – of killing innocent people.

            He wishes he could tell them about Meg. He wishes he could explain to them, it’d be so much easier, exactly how impossible it is that Castiel could be behind any of this. How Castiel, who felt so helpless and desperate and full of guilt for Meg’s death that he turned to drugs and nearly destroyed himself in the process, who in turned showed nothing but selflessness and lack of blame towards Dean in his admittance of Sam’s death, is the furthest thing from this psychopathic killer that anyone could get.

            “Listen,” he says, after a breath to steady himself. “I can’t explain to you what it is, but if you knew what I knew, you’d take that back in a heartbeat.”

            Victor actually makes a sound of disgust at that. “So now you’re keeping secrets for him, too? Whose side are you on, Winchester?”

            “Side? There are no _sides_ , Henriksen, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean protests. He turns to Jo. “Not hours ago you were makin’ a speech about teamwork and cooperation. Was that all bullshit? Suddenly you smell somethin’ fishy and turn on the one guy who actually knows what he’s doing?”

            Jo drops her gaze. “Right now, it’s what makes sense,” she says. “If you told us what you know – ”

            “I can’t do that,” Dean interrupts immediately. “I promised him I wouldn’t.”

            “It’s illegal to withhold information during an investigation,” Victor tells him, voice rumbling with warning, and the words serve as a bitter reminder that _fuck,_ when did Dean’s life turn into a procedural cop drama?

            It makes Dean laugh, a strangled noise. “Investigation? You’re throwing half-assed gossip around and you call it an investigation? You’re so full of shit, man. Take that little theory of yours to Bobby, see what he says about it. Or better yet, shove it up your ass. Is there any room or is your head too far up there?”

            “Dean,” Charlie cautions, and Dean whirls on her.

            “No, you know what? Fuck all of you. You’d think that after a couple months of this you’d have learned to _trust_ him by now, but apparently all the shit he’s done means nothing to you now that things are gettin’ a little too scary for you.”

            Dean is blazing inside. There is fire burning under his skin, at the tips of his fingers, scorching his cheeks and the back of his neck. He is angry, he realizes, but it is more than that. He is _offended,_ and _annoyed_ , and, if he’s honest with himself, a little afraid, but about what, he’s unsure. His mind keeps circling back to what they’d said earlier, about M targeting Castiel.

            “We’re wasting time arguing, when right outside that door there’s a real threat,” Dean says, feeling frost crackle its way around his heart, stifling the flame. “Cas isn’t M. But this maniac is still out there, and he’s come to our city. Are you going to help catch the son of a bitch or what?”

            Dean stands, beginning to gather the files together. Silently, Charlie goes to help him.

            “I don’t want it to be him,” Charlie whispers to him when she hands him the last one. She sounds upset, and Dean feels a little bad for yelling at her. “I don’t. I’m just trying to understand what the hell is going on.”

            She meets his gaze. “Thirty-eight people are dead, Dean,” she says. “And this guy hasn’t left a fingerprint, a hair, any damn thing to build a lead on. That terrifies me. It… I feel like the Wolverine. When he got his skeleton all infused with adamantium. Stuck in that tank, trying to get out, drowning.” She takes a shaky breath.

            Dean squeezes her arm. “Hey, but Wolverine was stronger after,” he reminds her.

            “Yeah, but a lot of people got hurt,” Charlie huffs, leaning into him. “It’s just… we’ve spent all day looking at the kind of stuff M does to people. How are we supposed to stop him?”

            Dean shrugs. “Same way we’ve stopped every other sick bastard that crosses us. One step at a time. And together,” he adds. “Jo was right before. Working together’s the only way to wade through the mud. That means we can’t – ” He levels a stare at the Jo and Victor, who are wordlessly watching the exchange. “ – doubt each other, not when there’s so much at stake. Okay?”

            The three of them nod, Jo and Charlie in unison and Victor a little later.

            “Alright then,” Dean says, shouldering the stack of files. “Let’s catch this dickhead.”

ℵ

            Castiel is already asleep when Dean arrives at the brownstone, exhausted and thoroughly spent. He creeps past the entrance to Castiel’s room and closes his own door quietly.

            He peers into the terrarium on his dresser, watching Sam the ladybug crawl towards his upturned soda bottle lid of sugar water. “Can’t sleep, little buddy?” he whispers.

            Sam the ladybug says nothing. He (Dean isn’t sure if the ladybug is actually male – he’d looked up how to tell and as soon as he’d read about cutting it open, he’d clicked out of the window in horror) flits the last few inches and lands on the edge of the lid, dipping into the meal ravenously.

            “Turtle won the race, Sammy,” Dean scolds before toeing off his shoes and flopping onto his mattress.

            He lies in bed a long time, watching the shadows change on his ceiling. The moon shines a spotlight through his window, casting the room in a soft glow. He imagines Castiel in the other room, how the light would cast his angles in sharp relief. How, if his eyes were open, they would turn to silver in the light.

            Despite their tentative armistice, Dean still fumes when he recalls how quick Jo, Charlie, and Victor were to lay the blame on Castiel.

            _Sure, he’s kind of a weird guy,_ Dean thinks, _but that doesn’t mean he’s a cold-blooded killer._

            The door opens, as if Castiel has been summoned by his thoughts, and Dean holds his breath over the pounding in his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as naturally as he can. Peering from between his eyelashes, he sees the dark outline of Castiel standing at his door.

            He looks tired, on the verge of speaking, but after a moment of indecision he shakes his head and begins to pull the door closed. The hinges squeak, and Dean uses it as an opportunity to stir.

            “Cas,” he says, but Castiel shushes him.

            “Sleep, Dean.”

            The door closes. Dean twists his hands in the fabric of his blanket, Castiel’s face imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, and lets himself slip at last into unconsciousness.

ℵ

            The phone rings.

            Dean curses into his pillow, fumbling blindly for his cellphone. It’s an unknown number.

            “Hello?” he asks groggily. The moon has set and the sun has risen, toasting his room to a temperature that makes Dean’s neck sweat. _Spring_ , he thinks, smiling to himself.

            “Winchester! Having a little beauty rest, were we?”

            Dean sits up. “Balthazar?” he asks in confusion.

            “We have a winner,” Balthazar chirps. His early-morning cheer is making Dean feel ill. “I was calling to ask how my brother is faring.”

            “He’s, uh… he’s ‘faring’ well, Balty,” Dean says, getting up to close his curtains. “There a reason you’re calling so early?”

            Balthazar _tut_ s into the receiver. “Jet lag, morning lark, take your pick. Could I swing by, have a chat?”

            Dean checks his clock. “It’s eight in the morning. Hell, it’s like you don’t even know him. It’s a miracle if I can get him out of bed before noon. Seriously. I’ll ask if maybe you can come by for lunch or something.”

            “Phone if there are any changes,” Balthazar says, and clicks off.

            Dean rolls his eyes and slips into a clean shirt and jeans before heading downstairs to make himself a cup of coffee.

            To his surprise, Castiel is already awake, stirring what must be a pound of sugar into his own mug. There is another one on the counter, which he hands off to Dean immediately.

            “You okay?” Dean asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

            Castiel nods. “Yes. Why would I not be?”

            “It’s eight in the morning.”

            “I see your observation skills are improving.”

            “And you’re awake,” Dean clarifies with a mocking scowl. “That hasn’t happened since, like, my first night here.”

            Castiel shrugs, taking a drink of his saccharine-soaked mug of high blood pressure. “I couldn’t sleep. I had too much on my mind.”

            Dean takes a seat at the table, decidedly not bringing up Castiel’s late-night romp to his room. Feigning forgetfulness, he’s found, is a marvelous way to not talk about things that need not be discussed. “Oh, do tell,” he says, batting his eyelashes. “Is it a boy?”

            “Yes,” Castiel answers. Dean’s eyes widen. “Namely, Richard Daney.”

            Dean shifts in his seat. “What about him?”

            “How did M know I was here?” Castiel asks, frustration leaking into his voice. “And why him?”

            Dean shakes his head. “Don’t try to apply logic to this guy. And, listen, we solve murders for a living. There’re news stories left and right about us. It wouldn’t exactly be tough to find you.”

            Castiel still looks upset, so Dean puts a hand on his arm in assurance. “You can’t think too much about it, okay? You’re gonna make yourself sick. How about a walk, huh? The weather’s gettin’ nicer, we could both do with some fresh air.”

            Nodding, Castiel follows Dean out the door. It’s still a little chilly, so they’re wearing coats, but the sun is slowly thawing the world around them.

            “You were right,” Castiel says. “Spring is coming. I’ll have to start planting soon.”

            Dean frowns at him. “You keep a garden? Where?”

            “Did you think the roof was only for the apiaries?” Castiel smiles, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps your ladybug might enjoy a trip outside his terrarium if I give him a garden.”

            “Sam,” Dean tells him, and clears his throat when his voice goes hoarse. “His name is Sam.”

            Castiel’s smile softens at its edges. “Sam,” he amends. The tenderness in his words is nearly enough to make Dean choke with emotion. “It’s a beautiful name.”

            “Yeah, he’s alright,” Dean coughs. He still feels shaky inside when he mentions Sam, but Castiel understands. He doesn’t make Dean talk about it, he doesn’t push more than Dean is comfortable with. It’s a little sad, Dean thinks, that this guy who not two months ago was a complete stranger to him, is more supportive of his past than his own father is.

            _Don’t think about John,_ Dean thinks to himself. Even the name brings a sour taste to his mouth. He’s been trying his best to ignore the man, but recently he’s been calling more and more. It churns Dean’s stomach to think that eventually he’s going to have to pick up the damn phone.

            The two of them walk in companionable silence a while longer, until the lines around Castiel’s eyes clear and both of them breathe a little easier.

            By the time they make it back to the brownstone, their steps are decidedly lighter. They laugh as they enter, something about how Castiel would grow pansies because he is one, something about how Dean would know, wouldn’t he, and they are so lost in their merriment that they don’t initially realize that anything is wrong.

            Dean notices it first. There is something clinging to the air, cold and unfriendly. He throws a hand out to his side, slamming his arm across Castiel’s chest.

            “What is it?” Castiel asks, immediately serious.

            Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously at the areas around him. “I don’t know yet.”

            They walk forward together, caution now marking their heavy steps. When they reach the living room, they stop.

            Propped up like a kindergartener’s nametag on one side of the table is a note. It’s a collage note, with every letter cut out of a magazine, pasted messily on a sheet of computer paper.

            “What the hell?” Dean murmurs as they approach it, still looking around in case they’ve got snipers pointed at the both of them right now or something.

_Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?_

_Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full._

_One for the detective, one for his friend,_

_One for the day that the angel meets his end._

_-M_

            Castiel hand shoots out to grab the paper, but Dean leaps for his arm before he can close his fingers around it. “Fingerprints, Cas,” he says.

            There is something shaking under Castiel’s skin. “You were right,” he breathes, his voice wobbling harder than a wind vane in a tornado. “You were all right, he’s targeting me.”

            Dean slides his grip down Castiel’s arm to his hand. “We’ll fight it, Cas, we’ll get him,” he says hurriedly. He doesn’t know what to feel. He is nothing but numb. “You know we can do it.”

            Something snaps in Castiel. He jerks himself from Dean, marching over to a bookshelf on the opposite wall. He pulls a chair over, wincing at its deafening scrape on the hardwood, and steps onto it. Snatching a book from the shelf, he jumps down.

            “What, you got something in a dusty book?” Dean asks. Castiel quiets him with a look.

            Castiel pulls back the binding on the spine of the book to reveal the tiny lens of a camera. It shines beetle-black at Dean.

            “What the fuck, Cas?” Dean demands, striding over to grab the book from him. “Why didn’t you say you had fucking cameras in the building? What, you got one in the shower or something?”

            Castiel huffs at him. “I didn’t tell you because I only installed them last night after I left the diner. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean says in amazement. “Cas, I could kiss you. You know what this means? We _got_ him. We got him red-handed on camera.”

            Castiel’s lip twitches. “We’ll see,” he says. “We’ll take this to the precinct and they can try to find him. Let’s hope the image caught his face.”

            Dean laughs. On impulse, he throws his arms around Castiel, drawing him into a tight embrace. Castiel stiffens at first, then relaxes and returns the gesture. “Ah, don’t be a cynic, Castiel Novak.  We’re gonna be just fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

            “You better have a damn good explanation for not calling me back, boys.”

 _Balthazar._ Dean groans low in his throat, and Castiel tenses. Their good mood evaporates immediately. Castiel’s eyes are still fixed on the letter.

            Balthazar knocks to the tune of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” He clears his throat. “I know you’re in there, your ghastly car is parked right outside.”

            Dean sends Castiel an apologetic look and goes to open the door. “Whose car are you talking about?”

            “Does it make a difference?” Balthazar answers as he enters. He shakes off his coat and throws it to Dean, who catches it with a murderous glare. Balthazar points to the both of them in turn. “You naughty kids stood me up. I was promised an exquisite lunch, so here I am.”

            “You weren’t _promised_ a damn thing, Balthazar,” Dean grumbles, tossing Balthazar’s coat onto the couch. “I told you I’d ask.”

            “And did you?” Balthazar retorts. “Perhaps you forgot how to dial a telephone to give an answer. I don’t blame you, Castiel, though you should keep a tighter leash on your slow-minded pet here.”

            Castiel’s eyes reflect nothing but disgust. “Do us all a favor and keep your mouth shut,” he snaps. “There are more important things to Dean and me than satisfying your every request.”

            But Balthazar isn’t listening anymore. He’s seen the letter. Dean tries in vain to sidestep in front of it, but Balthazar pushes him away. “What the ever-loving shit is this?” he demands.

            Neither Dean nor Castiel gives him an answer. They stand there, the tension stretching between them like a strained rubber band.

            “Well?” Balthazar seethes. “What, cat got your tongues?”

            “What do you think it is, Balthazar?” Castiel says bitterly. “It seems I’ve become the focus of our favorite murderer’s attention.”

            Balthazar, steeling himself for something, walks calmly up to Castiel. He reaches out and grabs Castiel’s shoulder. Then he reels back and punches Castiel in the face.

            “Hey!” Dean shouts, scurrying forward to pull Castiel back.

            Castiel doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t try to fight Balthazar, though Dean is itching to do it for him. Instead, he lifts a hand to wipe away the trickle of blood making a line from nose to lip. He swallows. The defeat in the set of Castiel’s shoulders floors Dean completely.

            “What the hell’s _wrong_ with you?” he says to Balthazar, still keeping a protective hand on Castiel. “Like this is his fucking fault?”

            “He’s the one who got himself in this mess in the first place!” Balthazar bellows, making another lunge toward Castiel. Dean starts forward, but Castiel throws a hand out and stops him.

            “People were dying, Balthazar, what did you expect me to do?” he hisses. His cheek is already beginning to blossom with clouds of purple and red. “You and Father always talked about doing the right thing, and – ”

            “No, Castiel,” Balthazar interrupts. “You’re only supposed do the right things for the right _people._ This – your little Superman charade – it was tolerated only because it kept you busy. You were never supposed to put yourself in danger. Father thought it was a hobby, a fancy of yours. He didn’t want you throwing a fit and storming off to the ends of the earth, so he put up with it so long as you showed no threat of doing just that.”

            Castiel stares at him. “A _hobby_? A _charade_? Saving lives, saving real human lives? You have no idea what it took to get me here.”

            “It didn’t have to be that way, Castiel,” Balthazar says. “You fell, but that was your own damn choice. Father tried to tell you, time and time again, that this work was not what you were meant to do, what you were meant to be.”

            “Forgive me if I don’t see eye-to-eye with whatever sick brand of morality Father thinks he possesses,” Castiel answers, fuming now. He steps forward. His voice is sharp enough to slice Balthazar like butter. “I don’t regret anything that I did. I could never. I _helped_ people. Yes, I lost my way. But I stood again, I stood amongst my friends, amongst these people that you deem so inferior, and I became stronger for it. And your acceptance is a small price to pay for that.”

            Balthazar’s face is twisted in pain, or anger, or regret, or any combination of them. Dean can’t figure it out. “I’ve followed Father for a very long time. God knows even he can push my buttons as much as they’ll go, but he knew what was best for you. He still does.”

            “The fact that you think that is exactly why we’re standing like this now.”

            “We’re brothers, Castiel. That used to mean something to you.”

            Castiel shakes his head. There is something of a smile on his face. It’s far from amused. “It still means something to me, Balthazar,” he says. “We just have different ideas of what brotherhood is.”

ℵ

            Balthazar pretty much flees after that. Dean, despite himself, can’t help but feel a sort of vindictive triumph as the door swings closed behind him. He also can’t really help hoping Balthazar trips on the steps, but there you go.

            Dean calls the precinct, telling them about the letter, before sitting down by Castiel with an ice pack in hand.

            “I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel complains, but allows Dean to press the ice to his face anyway. His eye isn’t swelling shut, but there’s a nasty bruise decorating his cheekbone, and his nose started bleeding again a few minutes ago. Dean hands him a neatly folded paper towel, which Castiel immediately crumples into a ball to hold to his nose.

            “You don’t deserve that asshole,” Dean tells him, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder. “I should’ve knocked his teeth out for what he said to you.”

            Castiel sighs, wincing at his own action. “That would have made us no better than he is,” he says.

            “Yeah, well, he’s still a piece of shit,” Dean answers.

            Castiel closes his eyes, leaning back into the couch. “You make a good point.”

            A sharp knock at the door draws both their attention to the entrance hallway. “I’ll get it,” Dean says, jumping up and crossing the foyer.

            Victor, Jo, and Charlie practically fall through the doorway in their hurry. Bobby hangs back and signals Dean over.

            “You said somethin’ about cameras in the house?” he asks.

            Dean nods. “Yeah, apparently Cas put them in last night. Lucky break, too. We got the memory and everything ready to ship down to the precinct.”

            “We don’t have the technology to do all that facial recognition shit back at the office,” Bobby tells him. “We’ll have to send it through the JNET in Pennsylvania. I talked to ‘em on the way here.”

            “Alright, yeah, sounds good,” Dean says. “So long as we catch the son of a bitch.”

            “It’ll take a few days,” Bobby answers. “But I reckon your mastermind had no clue that you _Damage Control_ ’d him. With any luck, we’ll get a good shot.” He hesitates before continuing. “How’s the kid?”

            Dean runs a hand through his hair. “He’s fine. Least that’s what he’s hell-bent on trying to prove.”

            “You think he’s puttin’ on a show?”

            “Wouldn’t you, if you’d just found out that the monster’s out from under your bed and is following your scent like raw meat?” Dean scoffs, but he is slowly filling with dread. Long ago, he’d imagined Castiel curled up dead with a needle in his arm. Now, he imagines a puddle of blood at his feet, Castiel’s bloated body washing up on Brighton Beach.

            Bobby makes a vague sound of affirmation and steps all the way into the brownstone. There are already pictures being taken of the letter, brushes hounding it for fingerprints. Dean follows Bobby to where Castiel is still sitting on the couch.

            “What happened to your face?” They overhear Charlie ask.

            “I had a disagreement with my brother.”

            Bobby takes over and pulls Charlie, who is still bug-eyed and mouthing the word ‘brother’, gently out of the way. “Novak, I’m puttin’ you under a protection detail.”

            Castiel sits up. “No,” he says in alarm. “I’m not leaving, not now.”

            “You’re not leaving. Just stayin’ at the precinct a few days till we get a lock on this bastard.”

            “No,” Castiel repeats, shaking his head. “No, I won’t let you lock me up when there’s a possibility someone else might still get hurt.”

            “There’s a possibility _you_ might get hurt,” Bobby tells him gruffly. There’s a strict no-nonsense edge to his voice.

            Castiel still looks like he’s about to summon a bolt of lightning to strike Bobby down. “I don’t care,” he says. “I won’t let you.”

            Bobby’s lips tighten to a white line. “Fine,” he huffs out. “But we’re puttin’ the house under surveillance. Just,” he adds quickly, cutting off Castiel’s protest, “so we can make sure the guy doesn’t get in again.”

            After a moment, Castiel nods in acquiescence. He looks exhausted.

            “Alright, Cas, let’s get you upstairs,” Dean intervenes, extending a hand to help Castiel stand. “It’s been a long day.”

            “It’s one in the afternoon.”

            “Yeah, and you look like you’re about to fall asleep on the spot. Come on, up you get.” Dean pushes Castiel to the stairs. The latter begins to climb, Dean’s hand on his back just in case.

            Castiel casts an annoyed look at Dean. “I’m not fragile, Dean,” he says. “I can make it upstairs on my own.”

            “Tough,” Dean says, following Castiel into his room. “’Cause we need to talk.”

            Castiel falls heavily onto his bed. “What is it, Dean?”

            Dean settles next to him, feeling vaguely awkward. “How you feeling about this whole thing?”

            “You mean M targeting me,” Castiel says. It’s not phrased as a question. “It’s… problematic.”

            Dean raises his eyebrow. “That’s all you’ve got to say? That it’s problematic? Hell, Cas, the plumbing in this house is _problematic_. A jacked-up serial killer on your tail’s a little more than that.”

            “Do you really want to know how I feel?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t seem to want to meet Dean’s eyes. “I feel relieved, Dean. We – when I was working with Scotland Yard, we were never able to find this man. Now, I – I have this video, we have a lead, and I am so close. At last, I have a chance to go after him. To make him pay for what he’s done.”

            Smoothing a hand over a wrinkle in his jeans, Dean takes his time in answering. “At the cost of your life, though.”

            Castiel sighs, a quiet, tired sigh that whispers through his lips. It nearly knocks Dean over. “If I have the chance to save more people from getting hurt, don’t I owe it to them to take it?” he says softly. “This is your home, too. I don’t doubt that if you had been here when he arrived, he would’ve killed you too. I can’t stand – I already have too much – ” He takes a deep breath. “There’s a quote in Shakespeare’s _Macbeth._ “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” I have to end this, Dean. Before I turn the ocean red.”

            Dean can’t stand to hear Castiel talk this way. As if his life means absolutely nothing, after everything that he’s accomplished. After everything they’ve accomplished together. Self-hatred is a burden that Dean’s shoulders know all too well, but to see it breaking Castiel’s spine this way is more than he can bear. It cuts something that is not yet ready to bleed, something that has only started to heal, that protects its scar tissue jealously.

            Dean is no innocent. He knows the burning of guilt and loathing. He knows the way it claws like a monster through the flesh. But he will not allow Castiel the pitiful satisfaction of sacrifice. He will not.

            “Macbeth also went crazy and power-hungry,” Dean reminds him gently. “And proved that not bein’ cautious about your ambition ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Didn’t Lady Macbeth push him into somethin’ that just wasn’t right?” He slides closer. “Killing Duncan wasn’t the answer for them. Going after M? Murdering him? That’s not gonna solve anything for you, either.”

            Castiel swallows, putting his hands together in his lap. He stares down at them. He does not deny what his intentions are towards M. “As long as M is gone, whatever happens to me shouldn’t matter. It’s a small price to pay.”

            Dean reaches out and grabs Castiel’s wrist. The pulse under his fingers thrums like a hummingbird’s. “You’re throwing quotes at me, so I’m gonna return the favor,” he says, tightening his grip. “You know Vonnegut? There’s a book of his, uh, _Mother Night._ ”

            “I’m familiar,” Castiel answers.

            Dean nods.““We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” Cas… you’re no killer. And I know, I know you want revenge, or justice, or whatever you think you’re fightin’ for, but this isn’t the way to get it. Look forward, man. Don’t let yourself get stuck in the past. That’s when everything goes to shit.”

            Castiel turns his hand, cradling Dean’s fingers in his palm. Dean doesn’t have the strength or the will to pull his hand away. Before he can stop himself, he lifts Castiel’s hand and brushes a chaste kiss across his knuckles. “You’ve been standing here a long time,” he says.

            Castiel smiles at that. “I know.”

            “Better move on, don’t you think?”

            There is something, glittering and twisting, written in Castiel’s eyes when, at last, he lifts his head to meet Dean’s gaze. The sunlight, shining through the window, has him all illuminated in gold. “Yes, sir,” he whispers. “And I moved on.”

            “Knock, knock! You guys decent?” Charlie announces, waltzing into the room with a hand over her eyes.

            Dean rolls his eyes, surreptitiously sliding his hand from Castiel’s. “One of these days you’re gonna regret walking in on us all the time.”

            “Okay, ew.” Charlie makes a face at him. “You guys, we need to take statements. I know you want your beauty sleep and all, but it’s procedure.” She waves her hand. “We’re only above the law when we get something good out of it.”

            “Um, yes, Charlie, that’s fine,” Castiel says. “We’ll be right with you.”

            Charlie nods. “Don’t be gross.” She bows out of the room.

            “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. He leans over and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek quickly, clumsily, like he is trying to do it before he can talk himself out of it. Standing, he walks out. Dean scolds his stomach for acting like a hamburger patty that someone’s just given a nice flip. He touches a hand to his warming cheek, and somehow feels like he’s heading into war.

ℵ

            Castiel is seriously one _“These things take time, Cas,”_ from ripping his fucking hair out.

            “You’re giving me fuckin’ angina, man,” Dean complains from his post on the couch. “Sit down, will you?”

            Castiel stops his pacing long enough to glare at Dean. “I’m waiting for Bobby to send an update.”

            “You know, if he hasn’t answered your twenty-seven calls already, I don’t think he’s got much to say on the subject,” Dean answers, looking just as annoyed as Castiel feels.

            Scoffing, Castiel turns on his heel and continues pacing. “He said he would have news within a few days. It’s been more than a few days.”

            “Yeah, ‘cause the government has always been a model of efficiency,” Dean says. “Castiel, sit the fuck down, before I get Charlie over here so she can krav maga you into a chair. You know she’d do it, too.”

            Castiel, in a fit of spite, chooses instead to flee to his room. He slams the door behind him hard enough that the lamp on his nightstand shakes a little, and he hears Dean’s exasperated, “Don’t be a bitch, Cas!”

            The tantrum rushes out of him like air out of a balloon. He sits on the edge of his bed, cradling his phone in one hand, and runs his fingers through his hair.

            He’s on a seesaw, one foot planted firmly on each side of it. This he knows.

            He also knows that he is dangerously close to leaning, that he may have begun to lean already. That if he puts too much weight on either leg he will topple and fall and scrape his knees. He is becoming improperly balanced. There is steel in the sole of one of his shoes. The other, in a half-assed imitation of ancient mythos, has wings. But they do not carry him well. They are weak and tattered and feebly flutter, as a dragonfly hit with a broom or something equally devastating.

            What, then, is so devastating to him now? What is his broom, what is it that is causing this imbalance? What, _what,_ is standing by him with two hands on his back, ready to push him off his seesaw?

            He is not afraid of M. He is not afraid of what M could do to him, given the chance. He has given years of his life to this case, what feels like decades. He is ready and willing to sacrifice himself if that must be the cost of bringing M down. So why does he feel like someone’s pumped him full of mud?

            Castiel is asking himself many questions, and he cannot do more than stare at his hands as if their lines will give him the answers he seeks.

            He’d known a psychic long ago. She was a counselor at one of the boarding schools he attended. Her name was Miss Missouri Moseley.

            “Castiel,” she’d said once, in that sweet honeyed voice of hers that had always brought a smile to his eleven-year-old face. That day, she was applying a homemade salve to a blossoming bruise under his eye. “You’ve a lot in the way of kindness, sugar. The fact that you stood up for that girl out there is proof enough of that.”

            Eleven-year-old Castiel had licked his lips and scrunched a tiny hand in the scratchy fabric of his school uniform. “The boys were being mean to her,” he’d answered. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but they hurt me too.”

            “Yeah,” Miss Moseley had sighed. “Sadly enough, that’s the way the world seems to be going. The do-wrongers are always gonna want to beat down the do-righters.”

            “So next time, should I… should I just stand aside? Let them do what they will?” The thought of it had made his skin crawl. But his eye _really_ hurt.

            Miss Moseley had grabbed him by the arm at that. “No, sweetie. You don’t give up. You don’t let them win.” She had poked his chest with vigor. “You care, Castiel. More than anyone I’ve ever met. And that’s not a weakness, baby, it’s the biggest strength you’re ever gonna get.”

            “But it hurts,” Castiel had simpered, leaking tears from a swollen eye.

            “Yeah, it’s gonna hurt sometimes,” Miss Moseley had said. “It’s gonna hurt a lot of times. But no matter what happens, don’t you let that get taken away from you. There’s a light in you, Castiel. Don’t you dare let little rats like those boys snuff it out. They ain’t even fit to lick your damn shoes clean for you.”

            Castiel had stared at her then, trying to think over the dull throb in his chest. “Then what do I do?”

            “You be a hero,” Miss Moseley had whispered. “You care, you fall in love, and you be happy. You’re a force. A star. The hand of God couldn’t stop you if it wanted to.”

            Castiel clears his throat now, banishing the memory from his mind with a couple of hard blinks. _I disappointed you, Missouri,_ he thinks bitterly. _I’m not happy, and caring has landed me in a difficult situation. I’m no hero. Far from it. What’s that Nietzsche quote again?_

_As for falling in love…_

Castiel jumps up suddenly, recalling the letter. _One for his friend_ , it had said. How, how had he forgotten that? They were after Dean too, they’re after _Dean._ Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he crashes downstairs to find –

            Dean, still lounging on the couch, fast asleep.

            Relief hits Castiel like a freight train. He makes his way over to Dean and shakes him awake with a hand to the shoulder. Dean jumps and looks blearily up at him.

            “Yeah, man, what’s up?”

            “They’re after you, too,” Castiel whispers, as though there’s a chance they might burst through the walls any second to carry them off. He is afraid, he practically stinks of it. He’s recognized it now. He’s afraid for Dean. That fear is grabbing him by the coattails with a gun to his spine, forcing him to choose, _choose,_ which way he will fall, which way the seesaw will tilt.

            There is guilt written in every line on Dean’s face. “Yeah, I know.”

            “What?”

            “I mean, it makes sense. We’re working together on the case, I’m just as involved as you are now. But don’t worry,” Dean hastens to add. “We just gotta put our heads together and work on finding the son of a bitch. Y’know, long as you’re not puttin’ yourself in harm’s way.”

Castiel looks as though someone’s thrown him in a pool with a plugged-in blowdryer in his hands.

            “What?”

            “This is,” Castiel breathes, or tries to. It’s like inhaling through a straw. While fifteen thousand feet in the air. With a boulder on his chest. “This is exactly what happened with Meg, I involved her too much, and she got _murdered_ for it, Dean, they _killed_ her, and they’re gonna do the same to you, and – ”

            “Hey,” Dean is on his feet in seconds, wrapping his arms around Castiel. “I’m not gonna get killed. Neither are you. I swear, if you die, I’ll kill you,” he jokes weakly.

            Castiel fights the temptation to bury his nose in Dean’s collarbone and stay there forever. “There is a hole in me, and it is burning other holes in me, and will continue burning holes in me until I am burned to nothing more than ashes in a field of dirt and my wholeness turns to holeness,” he whispers instead, reciting from an old journal he’d written in years ago, accidentally brushing his nose across Dean’s neck. He feels Dean shiver.

            Dean doesn’t answer him, only tightens his grip. Castiel thinks he could kiss him for that, and almost does. There is something resolute and sturdy about Dean. This he’s seen. He might be a star, but Dean is the earth he’s tethered to.

            But he is reminded, so suddenly that it strikes him like a physical blow, of the pool of blood he’d walked in on, those years ago. Of the warning he’s carried around inside since, repeated as a mantra, or a code: _do not allow yourself to become close to the people around you. You will hurt them. You will always hurt them._

            So he pulls away from Dean, and tries to pretend he imagines the half-hearted tug Dean gives, telling him to come back. There is wetness on his cheeks and dryness in his throat, and he thinks there is a hurricane in him. Or at the very least a canyon, one that groans and splits the ground like paper and tears him apart to throw his pieces to the wind.

            But Dean is speaking to him, and he nods and smiles at all the right times, because he is trained and he is well behaved. He is employing a method of survival that none else but Daddy Dearest taught him best: to ignore what that conniving little creature under his ribs whispers to him, or it might speak loud enough for someone else to hear and rip it from his chest.

ℵ

            “Let’s have, like, a party,” Dean says out of the blue around noon the next day.

            Castiel looks up from the newspaper. “What?”

            “Okay, hear me out,” Dean leans forward, tapping the side of his mug for emphasis. “Who are our friends here? Charlie, Benny, Jo? Victor, depending on the day? The only time they’ve ever been here was for work. Let’s, y’know, have a housewarming party or something.”

            Castiel folds the newspaper in half, taking a contemplative sip from his own steaming mug. “We’ve been living here for months.”

            “Yeah, well, we never had a housewarming party. Better late than never, right? Or, whatever. Come on,” Dean pleads. After a moment, he sobers. “Okay, listen. I never… after Sam, I pretty much cut all ties to the people around me. I haven’t actually been, y’know, _out_ with friends since then. I mean where we were actually doing friend stuff, not sitting around lookin’ at pictures of Murder House.”

            Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Castiel finally acquiesces. “Alright. What time?”

ℵ

            Charlie busts through the door so punctually that Dean thinks she might actually have been standing outside watching the clock. Naturally, she’s lugging a 24-count case of beer with her. Dean tries not to let it bother him. After all, it’s not casual conversation to bring up, “Oh, yeah, you probably shouldn’t bring any alcohol, because you’re coming to the home of two slowly recovering addicts,” so, he forgives her.

            “Hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend!” she calls as she enters.

            Her friend turns out to be a skinny Asian boy that Dean figures would probably go flying at the first sign of a breeze.

            Dean greets the boy, who introduces himself as Kevin, amiably enough. Charlie tells him that they met in at a gaming ‘seminar’, whatever that means.

            “So you, uh, gettin’ that?” Dean prompts her, winking.

            Kevin flushes bright red, but Charlie waves it off, laughing. “Dean, please. I’m a lady lover, not a man wrangler. We’ve just, y’know, got common interests.”

            Dean laughs at that, an honest-to-God laugh that is mixed with more than a little relief. After Victor’s attack about his relationship with Castiel, he’d been secretly worried that none of the others would accept him for… well, being maybe-kind-of-half a man wrangler, to coin the phrase. So he wraps an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and announces the beginning of the party.

            Jo arrives soon after, then a mildly pleased looking (which is good enough for Dean) Victor, and finally Benny with a cooler. “I brought the meat,” he declares. “Tell me you suckers got a grill.”

            Dean points him to the rusted, dented old thing.

            “It should work, but if it burns my whiskers off, it’ll be you payin’ the beautifyin’ fees, chief,” he grumbles, messing around with the knobs.

            “Yeah, yeah,” Dean says airily, smacking Benny’s ass as he leaves. “Don’t keep me waiting on those burgers, Benny, you know how the missus gets grumpy when he doesn’t eat.”

            Speaking of, Castiel is curled up on the couch by Charlie, flicking through a Netflix app that Dean didn’t even know they had on the television. He takes a seat on Castiel’s other side. “What are we watching?”

            “Trying to decide,” Charlie tells him. “You know Dreamboat over here hasn’t seen a single movie from the past sixty years? I’m, like, offended _for_ him.”

            “Ooh!” Dean grabs the remote from Charlie’s hand. “ _Into Darkness._ Let’s do this.”

            Charlie peers at him. “Wouldn’t’ve pegged you for a reboot kind of guy,” she says, faux insulted. “You’re just full of surprises, Winchester.”

            “That’s me,” Dean answers, grinning. “I’m like a can of worms, but like, pop culture.” He chuckles and shrugs. “Nah, you’re right. Normally it’s not me, but Chris Pine’s pretty hot.”

            Five pairs of eyes turn to him. Only Castiel keeps his squinty stare on the screen, as if trying to figure out how Benedict Cumberbatch could possibly be a real name.

            “And Zoe Saldana. Her too.”

            Dean presses play on the remote before anything further can be said. Kevin scrunches up on Dean’s other side, looking almost like he’s afraid Dean’s going to bite his head off. Which he just might, if he doesn’t get those burgers soon.

            Benny comes to the rescue just as Dean thinks that, serving them all double decker burgers on paper plates. Dean tucks into his with a hearty swoon of what might possibly be orgasmic delight.

            “Kev, I thought you were doing the whole vegan thing,” Charlie says when she sees Kevin take a bite from his own burger.

            Kevin shrugs. “Not worth it. Have you _tried_ the chicken and waffles plate at that restaurant down the street from my house? It’s like, God took heaven, and flattened it to a sheet of paper, and printed the recipe for that on it.”

            The room erupts into laughter.

            Castiel leans over and whispers to Dean, “Who in the world came up with the idea of mixing chicken and waffles?” His breath across the sensitive skin of his neck absolutely does _not_ make Dean’s heart immediately beat faster.

            “Fucking geniuses, that’s who,” he whispers back, ignoring the swooping in his stomach. He’s not sure he’s totally in control of his body when he accidentally-on-purpose noses at Castiel’s ear.

            Clearing his throat, Castiel pulls his head back and turns his attention back to the screen. Dean, burning on his cheeks and in his insides, watches the scene where Spock is standing in the volcano, about to sacrifice himself before the _Enterprise_ beams him up and Kirk saves his life.

            Suddenly, Dean thinks he can sympathize with the feeling of roasting alive.


	8. Chapter 8

            “Kill me,” Dean says in dismay the next morning. “Seriously, just end it.”

            The living room is littered with plates, beer bottles, and sticky substances that Dean doesn’t even want to think about. “There were like seven of us. How the fuck did we make such a mess?”

            Castiel laughs into the cushion, still lounging on the couch. “You’re the one who decided to draw on Jo when she fell asleep,” he points out.

            “Yeah, but I didn’t think she’d fuckin’ Hulk out on me and start throwing food.”

            “You deserved it.”

            “Sure, take the harpy’s side,” Dean scoffs, bending with a damp paper towel to wipe up a smear of ketchup on the floor. “Could you get off your ass and help pick some of this shit up?”

            Castiel throws his arm over his face. “No,” he whines petulantly. “Just come back to bed.”

            He says it jokingly, but Dean still feels it like a punch to the gut. Like he needs further reminding.

            Dean has no idea how it happened, and he’d rather not think about it, but his mind has rarely given him a choice in the matter. He doesn’t remember anyone leaving – they’d stayed late into the night, and he must’ve fallen asleep somewhere along the line. He knows they watched movies, but can’t remember seeing the ending to _Dark Knight Rises_ , so it must’ve been around three in the morning when he’d finally dropped off.

            So, like – it’s not really _his_ fault that he fell asleep on Castiel.

            Or that he woke up practically spooning Castiel, with his nose nestled in the other man’s soft hair.

            Right?

            God – their legs had been tangled and everything. Dean explicitly remembers thinking, _I thought this only happened in the fucking movies._ His immediate knee-jerk reaction had been to start pulling away, but then Castiel had stirred. After Castiel had settled again, Dean had pushed himself up onto his elbow, and stilled for a completely different reason.

            Castiel was beautiful when he slept, though Dean will absolutely deny ever thinking the word “beautiful”. There was a vulnerability – _yeah, ‘cause that’s better,_ Dean had thought to himself reproachfully – to his face in sleep. Less worry. Less anger. Less –

            “Yes, Dean?” The little shit’s voice had been so amused; Dean could’ve smacked him if he hadn’t been too busy drowning in mortification. Castiel had woken up in the midst of Dean’s musings and was staring up at him. “Can I help you?”

            Dean had practically flipped over the back of the couch scrambling to get away and immediately buried himself in cleanup.

            So now, with Castiel smirking at him from ten feet away, his goddamn shirt rucked up just enough to allow a peek at his toned stomach, Dean feels the inexplicable urge to throw the mop in his hand at him.

            “Ha ha,” he snaps instead, ignoring the way his cheeks flare up. They seem to do that a lot around Castiel. He kind of wants to cut them off and feed them to that stray cat that wanders into their garbage sometimes. “You’re hilarious, anyone ever tell you that?”

            “Shockingly, no,” Castiel answers.

            “Yeah, shockingly.”

            Castiel sighs and finally rolls off the couch. He’s working on gathering the empty beer bottles – which Dean has pointedly refrained from touching – when a knock sounds at the door.

            “Saved by the bell,” Dean grumbles as Castiel goes to answer it. “Jo’s probably back to throw more things at me now that she’s sober and has better aim.”

            The voice that drifts from the hallway is decidedly very _un-_ Jo.

            “Pack your things,” Dean hears Balthazar say.

            Dean mutters a string of obscenities under his breath and goes to the door. Castiel’s bruise has only begun to fade, and the last thing they need is Balthazar deciding it needs a fresh coat of paint.

            “What?” Castiel asks, hackles rising.

            Balthazar snaps his fingers in Castiel’s face. “Are you deaf?” he asks. “I said pack your things. You’re going back to London.”

            “Like hell he is,” Dean says instantly.

            Balthazar ignores him completely, keeping his watery eyes on Castiel. “Father has decided that the best place for you is out of M’s way, so he’s arranged for your return to England. We leave tonight.”

            “ _You_ leave tonight,” Castiel answers mildly, sounding far less bothered by this than Dean would have thought. “I’m staying here, in my home.”

            “Your real home _is_ London, Castiel.”

            “You should have thought of that before you shipped me here as a child.”

            Balthazar’s eyes narrow at that. “Still bitter, Cassie? I’ve got to say, not the best color on you.”

            “Lucky I don’t care much for your taste.”

            “I’m not asking, Castiel.”

            “Neither am I, Balthazar.”

            Balthazar exhales in frustration, slamming a hand on the doorframe before continuing. “What, you’d rather stay with this – this _pissant_ and – and do what, exactly? Sit around until this murderer breaks into your home? If you can even call this filthy hovel a home?”

            Castiel steps forward until the two of them are nose to nose. They are the same height, but Castiel’s anger, left to simmer for far too long, draws him up taller and imposing. “I appreciate your concern,” he says, speaking through his teeth. “But I will not be returning to England, not under your direction and certainly not under Father’s. So you can tell him, and quote, to bite me.”

            He slams the door in Balthazar’s face.

            They hear a distinct thwack on the other side of the door. Dean thinks Balthazar just kicked the door – and stubbed his toe, judging by the loud curse that follows.

            “Cas, I’m sorry I ever involved that asshole in the first place,” Dean says. “I should’ve listened when you said you wanted nothing to do with him.”

            Castiel shrugs. “It’s done.” He turns and picks up the mop that Dean had dropped. “Now,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Could you get off your ass and help pick some of this shit up?”

ℵ

            Bobby calls in the early morning, exactly a week after the initial incident. Castiel nearly falls on his face running for the phone.

            “Get here fast,” is all Bobby gets out before Castiel is hanging up and hurrying for the door, calling for Dean as he goes.

            They enter the precinct and head immediately for Bobby’s office, Castiel striding purposefully, albeit rather erratically. There is something shaking just under the surface of his skin, like he’s just walking on land after months at sea. A turbulent, tempestuous sea, full of bloodshed and heartache and betrayal. _This is it,_ he thinks. The moment of truth.

            Bobby signals for them to close the door. “Boys,” he starts, but Castiel interrupts him.

            “Captain Singer,” he says. “All due respect, but just tell us what you’ve learned.”

            Bobby eyes him before continuing. The shaking under Castiel’s skin has become an earthquake. “Nothing,” he says. Castiel thinks he hears something shatter, somewhere in the distance. “That’s the truth. We got nothing. He must’ve erased himself from the system completely. This is one smart son of a bitch.”

            “Nothing,” Castiel echoes.

            Bobby shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid. Look, here’s the memory card for the camera. I don’t know what use it is to you now, but I thought you might want it.”

            Dean grabs the card and takes Castiel by the elbow, bidding farewell and thanks – _thanks, what for, he did nothing, you heard him_ – to Bobby. He helps Castiel walk out.

 

            Castiel hadn’t realized exactly how much hope he’d pinned on this until this moment.

            He feels like dying.

            He allows Dean to navigate him onto one of the visitor’s benches and _how do we always end up like this._

            “You okay?” Dean asks, ever the worrier, and the word ‘okay’ is so funny to Castiel that he starts laughing, laughs until there is liquid gathering at the corners of his eyes and his chest is starting to strain. He doesn’t even know where to begin to answer that question properly.

            “Two years,” he says instead. The laughter is gone from his voice. It’s taken after an old man’s, or a young one who has seen far too much for his age. “I’ve been chasing this – this – for two years. He murdered Meg. He murdered her without a thought, because he wanted to hurt me. And,” he adds, shifting gears with a jolt. “He’s coming after you. I won’t lose anyone else. I can’t. But he _erased_ himself.”

            Dean sighs, sitting by him. “Yeah, the dick cheated. But that doesn’t mean we’re not gonna catch him. Just gotta try a little bit harder. Really dig our heels in. It’s gonna take some elbow grease, but we’ve been stuck before.”

            “Never like this,” Castiel says. “I… have no idea where to begin. None at all. I always used to be so sure of myself, but this… what am I supposed to do?”

            “Hey,” Dean murmurs, slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “We’ll work it out, okay? You’re not on your own with this, Cas. You’ve never been on your own.”

            Castiel nestles into Dean’s side, and somehow the gesture feels far more intimate than the compromising position they’d found themselves in that morning. Not that Castiel hadn’t appreciated Dean’s warmth at his back, but this is Dean _understanding,_ Dean _acknowledging,_ Dean _comforting._

            It all makes Castiel rather annoyingly sentimental.

            “Can we go home?” he asks at last. Dean smiles at him and pats his shoulder.

            “Yeah, Cas. Let’s go.”

ℵ

            Castiel hasn’t left his room in a long time, and Dean’s starting to get a little worried.

            Like, worried to the point where he cooked an extravagant lunch to stave off the nerves, and is now knocking on Castiel’s door for the third time with a tray that probably weighs more than he does.

            “Come on, man, you gotta eat something,” Dean says, and really, he can’t be blamed for the irritation that is beginning to leak into his voice. “Don’t be a dick.”

            “Dean, I’m not hungry,” comes Castiel’s response, and, hey, at least he’s talking.

            “Bullshit.”

            “I just ate.”

            “That was yesterday.”

            A pause.

“Oh.”

            Dean sighs. He sets the tray down on the floor. “So this is what I’ve come to,” he mutters, pulling a bobby pin from his pocket. Crouching down so he’s eye level with the knob, he begins to pick the lock. “Breaking into my own friend’s room.”

            It’s a little weird how good he is at this. It takes him maybe twenty seconds before he hears the tumblers click and he pushes the door open.

            Castiel is (naturally) shirtless, face down on the bed. He doesn’t even react to Dean entering his room.

            Instead of speaking, Dean sits by him.

            Dean had never asked Castiel about his tattoos. In retrospect, he has no idea how it hasn’t come up – the man is shirtless half the time anyway. But Dean looks at them closely now, at the beautifully shaded feathers spread across his shoulder and down the back of his arm, at the ones falling and broken on his forearm. _You fell,_ he remembers Balthazar telling Castiel.

            He wonders how long Castiel has been falling, and when his misery will end.

            The letters where the joint would be on an opposite wing are yet another mystery. They don’t appear to be any language Dean has ever seen, and yet exude a quiet power to them.

            “It’s Enochian,” Castiel says, startling Dean, and it is only then that he realizes that he’s been running his fingers along their lines. “The language of the angels.”

            “What does it mean?” Dean asks, taking his hand back.

           Castiel slowly sits up. “It’s my name. It’s – ” He hesitates. “The one thing my mother gave me, before she died.” He shakes his head. “She studied theology, that’s all I know. I don’t remember anything about her. My father never even kept pictures.”

           He sighs, and Dean feels its echo deep in the groaning of his bones. “I used to think she never existed. That she was just another invention of my father’s, to keep us in line. ‘What would your mother say?’, he used to tell us. And I’d tell him we don’t know what she would say, because she was gone and she was never coming back.”

           Castiel touches the feathers on his arm. “Can you miss someone you never knew?”

           Dean doesn’t think Castiel is expecting an answer, but he gives him one anyway. “I think so,” he says. He wants to say more, but that is all he can form. There are no words for the pulling at his tongue.

ℵ

            Castiel knows a lot of words. He knows that, in the least immodest way possible.

            He knows he wakes with a listless feeling of dysania every morning. He knows he passes the day and well into the night with near crippling drapetomania. He knows the sonder of life intimately, and just how kairosclerosis tastes on the tongue, and the exquisite poignancy of moledro when reading the works of Neruda, Plath, or Tagore.

            But he cannot find a word for what he feels inside of him now. What he feels every time he thinks of his mother, or every time he watches the first buds of spring pick their way out of the winter snow, or every time his lips form the word “family”.

            He finds himself walking the streets and falling to the draw of waldosia, searching the crowds for the face of someone he has never seen. He doesn’t know what she looked like, but he likes to think that when she first held him, she smiled.

            He hopes.

            “Of course, later I figured out that she must have existed, or else Balthazar and I would not. I thought maybe she’d run away. Maybe she’d taken one look at me and decided she didn’t want to stay anymore. And then I got tired of being angry, and then tired of being tired. I invented stories about her. I’d tell the teachers at the boarding schools that my mother had been an angel. That she gave me blue eyes because they reminded her of the sky, but then she’d begun to miss Heaven too much and that she was sorry but she had to go,” Castiel continues. His voice wavers like it’s in the middle of an earthquake, and his vision goes blurry.

            “But she’s not an angel. She’s dead in the ground. And I stopped believing in Heaven when my father decided the family Bible was better used for leaving bruises than for preaching.”

            Dean reaches for him. Castiel sees it, sees how he hesitates halfway and then stops.

            Castiel takes his hand. It is warm and gentle, and he had almost forgotten, before Dean came along, what that felt like. He brings it to his mouth. Baisemain _._

He thinks, just maybe, he has another instance to add to his list of moments for which he has no word.

ℵ

            Dean tells him to keep his head up, but Castiel hears the unspoken words under his reassurances: _It’s over. We’re done._

            It’s funny. He thought he’d be more afraid when faced with the idea of approaching death. M’s threat hasn’t left his mind – in fact, it’s appearing even more frequently in his nightmares – but it is accompanied by a dragging sense of apathy.

            To be frank, he kind of wishes M would just get it over with already. This waiting is starting to wear on him.

            This, of course, is not the healthiest way of thinking, but Castiel finds it difficult to care.

            Dean catches on almost immediately, but he doesn’t say much. Castiel thinks Dean doesn’t really know what to do with him, this sad sack of lethargy that he’s become. _It’s okay,_ Castiel thinks. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself either.

            Castiel finds his thoughts constantly circling back to Meg, which is dangerous enough in itself. Weak wisps of images, really. The smoke from her cigarette curling around her hair. Once, he thinks he recalls her rich laugh.

            Mostly he thinks about the things he’s forgotten, the things he’d lost when he’d fallen to the needle. He used to believe that he began using drugs because the clarity of it helped him focus. Now he thinks he had just wanted to drown himself in the sweet pull of his grief. That he was too weak to move forward without someone to tie himself to. Isn’t that what Father always called him? Weak. Broken. Laced with faults and spread so thin it wouldn’t be long now before he snapped.

            _I snapped, Father. Are you proud yet?_

He’d believed himself to be in love with Meg. But he’s not sure he knows the feeling. Perhaps he’d been in love with the idea of her. That it seemed like she knew him, or he thought she wanted to. That was understandable, right?  Until –

            Until she’d been ripped away. Tossed to sea like an unwanted catch.

            Now there is Dean, or rather, there is for now. Isn’t that always the way it goes? M threatened him too, and Castiel imagines walking into the brownstone one day to a pool of blood on the floor. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, but it still doesn’t compute with him. His brain short circuits at the thought of it, and yet keeps revisiting it. He can’t stop. It is making him feel ill.

            Perhaps this line of thought is not one he should be following without a little buzz in his system.

            He leaves when he’s sure Dean is asleep and walks to a nearby liquor store. The sharpness of winter has not yet left the night air, and he welcomes it into his lungs. He misses, though, the crispness of the autumn. How the leaves crackle underfoot, how they change color as though determined to make one last impression on the world before falling from their homes.

            There is something to be said, Castiel thinks, for his predilection toward things in decay.

            The fluorescent lighting of the liquor store reminds Castiel of a hospital. But there is nothing clean about the yellow stains on the floor, nothing clinical about the cashier who sneezes through his fingers before handing Castiel the bag. The store is dirty, infested with cockroaches, coated in a hearty layer of dirt and sweat and vomit. Castiel feels almost at home.

            He opens the bottle before reaching the brownstone. It is illegal to have an open container of alcohol on a public sidewalk, road, or park in New York, he knows. But he thinks it would be a mercy to be incarcerated now. He turns a corner with an overwhelming sense of disappointment when he sees the streets are empty. He doesn’t know whether he was expecting a policeman or M. He doesn’t know which would give him greater relief.

            He takes another swig from the bottle, his throat tightening at the burn of it. It’s cheap, gas station quality vodka, more rubbing alcohol than anything else, but it gets him drunk, and hey, what else is liquor for?

            _Better this than a syringe,_ he thinks with a hollow laugh. It echoes and rumbles down the streets before hitting a wall and shattering into the night. He wants it, now more than he ever has since he was admitted to the rehabilitation center. He wants it so badly his left arm is shaking with the force of his need, shaking and itching. He breaks into a run.

            He’s not quite sure how he gets to the door. Muscle memory, if he had to wager a guess. His mind is far too hazy now, and his arm is screaming at him, clamoring for his attention. He wishes he could cut it off.

            He trips over the stray cat when it comes meowing to greet him. “No scraps tonight,” he murmurs regretfully. “Unless you like Wódka.”

            The door closes behind him. How did he get inside? He gropes at the wall until he finds – there, the lights switch.

            Someone’s hands close around his biceps. Castiel fights them with one arm, the other clutching his bottle to his chest like it is something sacred. A holy, near empty bottle of self-pity of loathing.

            “Damn it, Cas,” the person grunts, and Castiel knows that voice, knows that face. He stops struggling.

            “Dean,” he says, but his mouth feels fuzzy and he doesn’t know if he gets the word out right. “What are you doing here?”

            Dean doesn’t answer, which Castiel finds rather rude of him. He has half a mind to tell him so, but he’s too busy being manhandled into an armchair.

            “What the _fuck_ , Cas?” Dean’s voice is very loud.

            Castiel hears glass breaking and a window slam shut. He frowns. “Did you just throw my – ” He hiccups, “ – out the window?”

            “You fucking idiot,” Dean hisses. Castiel doesn’t want to hear any more mean words. He wants to go to bed, or maybe nurse another bottle of vodka. His arm is still shaking, and Dean grabs it. “What, did you shoot up, too?”

            “No,” Castiel blurts. Dean’s anger is making him antsy. “But I – I wanted to.”

            Dean curses again, tilting Castiel’s head back to look at his eyes. Castiel tries to focus his vision on Dean, he really does, but everything is swimming. He must be confused, because Dean looks afraid, but that makes no sense because he sounds so angry.

            Castiel, in a whiplashed moment of clarity, suddenly remembers Dean’s own former addiction. He jerks his whole body back, cringing at the scrap of the chair’s legs on hardwood. “Dean, I’m sorry, I brought it in here and I didn’t even think of you, and – ” And his vision is swimming now for an entirely different reason.

            Dean moves forward, wiping the tears from Castiel’s face. Castiel’s heart flutters at the unexpected tenderness. “Hey,” he whispers in a voice far too gentle for Castiel’s undeserving ears. “Hey, no, don’t worry about that. I didn’t even think about it.”

            “I didn’t even think about it,” he repeats, surprised now. But he shakes himself from it and reaches to help Castiel stand. “Just come on, Cas. Let’s get you to your room. Can you walk?”

            He can, but Dean is warm and solid, so he shakes his head. Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s middle. They take the stairs together, one step at a time. The repetition of it lulls Castiel until he is swaying into Dean.

            Castiel collapses onto his bed with the grace of a one-winged butterfly. He hears Dean place the trashcan by him and turn to leave.

            “Dean,” Castiel calls, far too gone to silence himself with any shred of dignity. “Could you stay?”

            Dean sighs. He stands there a long time, long enough that Castiel is convinced he’s turned to stone. But then he toes off his shoes and crawls onto the other side of the bed. “Okay, Cas,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

            “Until I wake up?”

            Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s in the dark. Castiel knows his must be damp and clammy with sweat, but Dean holds it tightly anyway, and Castiel could weep. “And after, too.”

ℵ

            Dean manages to draw Castiel out of the room three days later, with the warning that he’ll go up to the roof _right fucking now_ and bust open the apiaries to let the bees loose. Castiel tells him matter-of-factly that, “They’re bees, Dean, not birds, and they will attack you if they feel threatened.”

            Castiel emerges, tightening a robe around his waist.

            Dean stares at him. “That’s mine,” he protests weakly.

            “Not right now, it isn’t,” Castiel says, popping into the kitchen. He’s taken to leaving out a milk saucer for the stray cat every night.

            He cups the bowl in both hands once it’s full, opening the door with his elbow to set it on the front step, and runs right into Charlie.

            “Oh!” Charlie, who now has a stream of milk down the front of her shirt, exclaims.

            “Charlie!” Castiel says, setting the bowl down quickly and running to grab paper towels. “I apologize. You should – dab, don’t scrub.”

            Charlie laughs, changing her movements accordingly. “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Cas. An ex-girlfriend gave me this shirt, actually. I’ve been trying to come up with some excuse to get rid of it, ‘cause, like, gross. So thanks!”

            Dean, who had materialized sometime during the chaos, frowns at her. “Why are you here, Charlie?”

            “Well, hello to you, too, Grumpy,” Charlie answers, setting a backpack down on the kitchen table. “Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

            “Yeah, yeah, just answer the question, Dopey. What, Bobby send you over here with more bad news?”

            Charlie lifts her hands in surrender. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Columbo. Listen, I heard what happened, and it sucks. But before I got into law enforcement, I was – eh, you could say, ‘on the other side of the fence’.”

            “You were a criminal,” Castiel pitches, looking completely unfazed.

            Charlie shrugs with one shoulder. “I don’t believe in labels,” she says. “Anyway, I was, uh, kind of a hacktivist? Okay, shut up, we hate the portmanteau just as much as you do,” she adds at the look on Dean’s face. “But yeah, I moved a couple things here, dismantled some capitalist institutions there – Dean, I said shut up.”

            She holds a hand out expectantly. “Do you have the memory card from those cameras Q here installed? Bobby said he gave it to you.” She smiles at Castiel fondly. “Good thinking there, too.”

            Dean plucks it from the bookshelf he had placed it on and hands it over, looking just as confused as Castiel feels. “Charlie, they already ran that. Nothing came up, you know that.”

            Charlie grins. “Nothing came up in registered systems, but those aren’t the only databases out there. Your boy’s still in town, and I have something better than the stupid JNET.”

            She unzips her backpack, pulling a laptop out of it. Opening it, she inserts the memory card and starts clicking around. “ _I_ have the whole city in the palm of my hand.”

            “Traffic cameras,” Castiel murmurs out loud, like he’s just received a message from God.

            Charlie taps her nose. “Yes, siree. I’ve used your video to write an algorithm that’s going to let me identify the guy through Manhattan’s street cams. Let me just reprogram them right now.”

            “You can do that?” Dean asks in awe.

           Charlie merely looks at him, raising one eyebrow. “Darn tootin’. I’m like Wonder Woman, but without the Lasso of Truth and rocking Amazon body. It’s a shame, but the world couldn’t handle that much awesome.”

           She turns back to her screen. “And… rerouting to… okay! Here we go!”

           “Holy shit,” Dean says when he sees what she’s done. The screen is split into hundreds of tiny squares. If he squints, he can just make out sidewalks, cars, people walking. “This is all traffic cameras?”

           “Every single one,” Charlie replies. “And you don’t have to worry about looking for him yourself. Just keep the algorithm running and the cams’ll scan pedestrians and people in cars for your guy. She’ll let you know when she’s got him.”

           She plugs the laptop in and beams at them. “Got it?”

           “Charlie, why are you helping us?” Castiel asks.

           “Yeah, don’t get us wrong, we appreciate it and all,” Dean adds. “But you could get in serious trouble for this.”

           Charlie tilts her chin up, staring straight at Castiel as she speaks. “I made a mistake. An error in judgment. I’m gonna make up for it by helping you kick ass.”

           Dean recalls the conversation – fight, really – they’d had in the diner, when they’d all turned on Castiel. He knows what Charlie means, and he appreciates it. He sends her a nod, and she gives him a watery smile.

           Castiel looks a little confused, but grateful all the same. “Thank you, Charlie,” he says.

           She dips her head at him and turns to leave.

           “Charlie,” Dean calls when she is at the door. “For what it’s worth? You’re better than Wonder Woman. Amazonium’s overrated anyway.”

           Charlie lights up all over at that. “See you later, Justice League,” she murmurs. The door closes behind her.

ℵ

            Not two days go by before Charlie’s computer blips. Dean is in the kitchen preparing lunch when it goes off, and he immediately drops the knife he’s holding to run into Castiel’s room.

            Castiel is reading, curled up on one corner of his bed, nestled among his blankets.  He looks up and scrambles out of bed.

            “Are you sure?” Castiel asks as they hurry down the stairs.

            “Charlie said it’d work, didn’t she?” Dean replies, jumping the last two steps to approach the table where the laptop lays open.

            One of the squares is lit up in red. Dean clicks on it and it expands to fill the screen. A man, still forty feet from the camera, becomes highlighted and tagged. He’s not at all what Dean would’ve pictured a mass murderer to look like. Rather, he is short and stocky, sporting a long thick coat even in this warming weather.

            “There,” Dean says, pointing. “You got the street?”

            “Yes. It isn’t far. Let’s go.” Castiel runs out of the brownstone. Dean grabs the laptop and tucks it under his arm. They squeeze into Castiel’s Prius and peel off the curb.

            “Shouldn’t we call Bobby?” Dean asks.

            “There isn’t time,” Castiel says, pink-cheeked with adrenaline. “By the time any police car gets there he’ll be long gone. This is him and us now. Just him and us.”


	9. Chapter 9

            Castiel can’t stop thinking, the entire way there, _what if we miss him?_ This is the closest he’s ever gotten to capturing this psychopath. And suddenly, confronted with the very real idea that this might be it, Castiel can’t seem to be able to shelve his fears and doubts.

            _What if it’s a trap?_ What if M had known the entire time that the camera was there? What if he purposefully waited until he could be sure that Castiel was running surveillance, and let himself be seen? What if he’s waiting for them, setting up tables with their names on them?

            Or what if they get there only to find out that M managed to escape? That he has slipped through their fingers one more time? That the next body that turns up is on their heads, because they weren’t quick enough?

            Castiel can’t decide which one sounds worse.

            The closer the car gets to their destination, the tenser Castiel feels. His muscles turn to concrete, his hands clutching at the steering wheel like it is the only thing keeping him afloat. His breathing is shallow, and there is something burning in him.

            Dean is talking, and Castiel forces himself to listen. “We gotta stick together, okay, Cas? Don’t do anything stupid. This guy’s dangerous.”

            “I understand.”

            Dean has the laptop open on his legs, tracking the man as he walks down the street and alerting Castiel when he has crossed another intersection. Castiel turns the corner so closely that the wheels of the car jolt against the curb. Dean sends him a concerned look. “You okay, man?”

            “Yes,” he says curtly.

            He knows the tone of his voice isn’t exactly convincing. Dean’s lips tighten.

            “Do you have something you’d like to say to me, Dean?”

            Dean taps his fingers across his leg, staring out the window. “Just, y’know. Focus. Remember what’s important.”

            Castiel exhales slowly through his nose, warming his hands on the fire that is growing steadily in his stomach. This is a vendetta, he knows, and not a healthy one. But he can’t find it in him to care. He would die before he would allow the world to suffer any more at M’s hands.

            They park haphazardly. Dean closes the laptop and starts getting out of the car. Castiel leans across the center console to open the glove compartment, sliding out a cold piece of metal that doesn’t escape Dean’s attention.

            Dean gapes at him. “You brought a fucking _gun_?”

            Castiel winces at the shame that creeps through him. The look on Dean’s face, all shocked disappointment, is a little hard to swallow. “It was a necessary precaution.”

            “Do you even have a license for that thing?”

            “Yes, I do,” Castiel answers, closing the glove compartment and sliding out of the car. “Not everything I own is contraband.”

            Dean slams shut his door and stares at Castiel over the hood of the car. “What exactly is your plan here?”

            “Dean, do you seriously believe that this butcher would at all hesitate to attack you if you neared him unarmed?” Castiel starts resolutely walking away from the car, half-jogging in the direction of the intersection where the camera last pinged the man’s location. “Now isn’t the best time to discuss my method of approach.”

ℵ

            Thankfully, the street they cross is practically deserted. Castiel is holding the gun in a manner much too obvious for Dean’s comfort. Up ahead, they spot M, heading in the same direction as them. His back is to them.

            Dean opts to duck through alleys in order to cut off M from ahead. So this is how he finds himself with his back pressed against a dingy brick wall, listening intently for the sound of oncoming footsteps. When he gauges that M is just about to reach the alley entrance, he steps out in front of him.

            Dean barely has time to register the surprise in the man’s eyes before Castiel is shoving up behind the man, pressing the gun barrel to his spine.

            “What a wonderful welcome party,” the man says mildly, eyeing Castiel as a best as he can over his shoulder. “Personally I would’ve gone with glitter-bathed ladies of the night.”

            And of course he’s got the most supercilious British accent Dean has ever heard. Because his life isn’t already enough of a walking cliché.

            “They were fresh out,” Dean answers, unable to keep the scathing bite out of his voice.

            “Understandable,” M says, “but a shame.”

            “Let’s go,” Castiel snaps, jabbing the gun deeper into the man’s back.

            M smiles a little at that. “And what makes you think I’d come with you?”

Castiel thumbs off the safety with a vicious click. He says, in an off-handed kind of way, “You should know that I have no qualms about the thought of killing you.”

            Dean looks sharply at Castiel at that. Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s for half a second before flitting away again.

            “Blunt. Firm,” M coos, lifting his hands in a mockery of surrender. “I like it.”

            Castiel turns him around, leading him to the car. Dean follows close behind, keeping an eye on M in case he tries anything.

            Dean opens the door to the backseat, since Castiel’s hands are kind of full.

            As M makes his way to enter the vehicle, Castiel snaps the gun across the back of his head and knocks him unconscious.

            “What the _fuck_ , Cas?” Dean shouts, jumping back. M collapses halfway into the backseat, his legs still outside. Castiel grabs them and shoves M the rest of the way into the car, slamming the door on his toes.

            “He might’ve attacked while I was driving,” Castiel says coolly.

            “God,” Dean mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “You just knocked out a guy who’s _murdered_ almost forty people. He’s gonna pissed as hell when he wakes up.”

            “Then I’ll hit him again.”

            Dean isn’t sure how he feels about this side of Castiel. It’s exposed, like a raw nerve, jolting and spitting when touched. It’s callous and mindless and impulsive, and there is no trace of the warmth in Castiel that Dean had been beginning to uncover.

            “Okay,” Dean says uncertainly, cautiously, like he is handling a very fine piece of glass. “Okay, yeah. Come on, let’s take him to the cops.”

            Castiel pauses. He still holds the gun in his hand, and he runs his fingers over it now. The gesture has Dean’s skin crawling. “No,” he says at last. “I don’t think we can take him to the police.”

            “Cas, what are you talking about?” Dean asks.

            “I thought,” Castiel says, glancing over at M’s prone form, “that I would feel more triumph than I do. That I would feel as though we had really accomplished something.”

            Dean clears his throat. “We have, Cas. Look, we caught him. It’s over. Now let the police deal with him. It’s not our problem anymore.”

            “He killed Meg,” Castiel murmurs. “He threatened to kill you.”

            Dean’s stomach swoops. “Yeah. But now he’s gonna go away for the rest of his life. He’s not gonna be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

            “No, he won’t,” Castiel says, softly, with an edge that could cut steel. “I’ll make sure of it.”

            Castiel lifts his hand and, before Dean can react, slams the gun into Dean’s temple. Dean falls, and Castiel catches him, and before the world around him dims, he feels Castiel whisper his contrition into his neck.

ℵ

            Dean wakes feeling like he’s been hit over the head with a bulldozer.

            His first instinct is to lift a hand to what is surely a massive bruise on his temple, but he can’t. His wrists are tied together. As his eyes adjust to the gloom, the area around him sharpens into a large room. The ceiling is high above him, and he’s surrounded by boxes. It looks like a warehouse of some sort.

            The ceiling is supported by concrete poles. He is sitting with his back to one, his arms wrapped awkwardly behind him and constricted.

            “What the hell?” he says in a low groan. The pounding behind his eyes is almost unbearable.

            “You know, if I were you,” a voice calls from his right. “I’d’ve picked better friends.”

            Dean snaps his head around and the world goes spotty for a few seconds. M is backed up against a metal grate lined with wood panels, his arms suspended at either side by manacles like some grotesque imitation of a crucifixion. He is smiling wryly at Dean.

            “Yeah? The hell do you know?”

            “Well, I’m just shooting in the dark here,” M answers smoothly, “but I doubt he tied you up because he was feeling the love.”

            Dean leans his head back against the column. He strains against his ties, but Castiel must’ve been an Eagle Scout or something, because he can’t get loose. He glances over at M again and sees a table laid out in front of him, cluttered with an assortment of blades. He swallows hard. “What, were you expecting the Four Seasons?”

            “No, not for me,” M says, laughing lowly. “But you, what’d you do? Insult his mother?”

            “Shut up.”

            “Oh, very original.”

            Dean tries his best to ignore him after that, but it’s difficult when his words keep running laps in Dean’s head. The look on Castiel’s face before he’d struck had been cold. If Dean had a flair for the dramatic, he’d call it remorseless. The thought of it sends a shudder scuttling down Dean’s spine.

            Dean had lost someone, too. And yeah, it had been fucking awful. So he can relate to Castiel, on that level. He supposes it’s different for them. Dean has no one else to blame but himself for what happened to Sam. He knows that if someone else had been responsible for the death of his brother, he would stop at nothing to put an end to them, in whatever way he thought was necessary.

            He’d punished himself, he thinks, in the same way Castiel wants to punish M.

            After all, alcohol is just as effective as a knife. Maybe just more cowardly.

            The back door to the warehouse opens, and Castiel steps in. When he sees that Dean is awake, he hesitates. But only for a second. He drops two more blades on the table and turns to face M.

            “Is it play time?” M asks. His tone is airy, but his eyes are glued to the table, glittering with something like apprehension.

            “For me,” Castiel says.

            “Cas,” Dean tries. Castiel’s entrance had sent Dean’s stomach into an incredible feat of gymnastics that would have won him the Olympic gold. He knows what’s coming. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to see Castiel fall to that. “Cas, stop.”

            Castiel clears his throat. “Ten years,” he says loudly. “Ten years you’ve been terrorizing this planet.”

            “Make noise, get noticed,” M recites. “I’ve made quite a lot of noise.”

            “Yes, you have. Do you know what people do to birds who make too much noise?”

            “You’re all talk,” M says in an overconfident sort of voice. “There’s no _spark_ in you, Novak. You’re too soft.”

            Castiel steps forward until he is nearly nose to nose with M. There is a cool smile on M’s face, but Castiel’s expression looks carved from stone. “Do you want to test that theory?” he murmurs.

            “ _Cas_ ,” Dean implores, struggling futilely against his bonds. His heart’s running a marathon now. “You gotta stop, okay? This isn’t you.”

            Castiel doesn’t blink. He turns and runs his hand, light as a feather, over the tools on his table.

            “Cas, _Cas,_ ” M quotes Dean, simpering. “So, the great _Cas_ has captured me at last. What are you going to do? Pull my braids? What’s little Cassie going to do?” His face breaks into a broad grin, and a laugh bubbles past his lips.

            The hand that is outstretched towards the tools clenches into a fist and swings back to Castiel’s side. “I want to know one thing,” he says, and his voice sounds wrecked. “I want to know why you did it.”

            M raises a lofty eyebrow. “I’ve done a lot of things, kitten. You might want to be a bit more specific.”

            Even from where he sits, Dean can see that Castiel is digging his nails deeply into the meat of his palm.

            “Meg.”

            M pauses and shrugs, making his chains rattle. He suddenly looks bored with this entire ordeal, as if Castiel weren’t minutes away from torturing and killing him. Dean finds it incredibly unnerving.

            “Don’t know who you’re talking about. It’s a big city, mate.”

            “Pretending you don’t know who she is will not make things any easier for you,” Castiel fumes, only just containing himself from leaping forward and shaking M until he answers.

            M only snorts a little, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Meg… Masters?”

            Castiel flinches, and M grins in his predatory way.

            “Masters. Yes, now I remember. Killed in her apartment, wasn’t she? Well, sorry to break it to you, but that wasn’t me.” M chuckles a little bit, as if he’d made a joke.

            “Oh, right,” Castiel bites scathingly. “It must have been the _other_ bloodthirsty psychopath who ties people up on a table and slits their throats. My mistake.”

            M narrows his eyes. “Are those big ears of yours functional? That was, what, two years ago? I was behind bars. Did a stint for getting into a bar brawl.” He smirks. “I won, of course. Never let it be said I don’t know how to have a little fun.”

            Castiel’s eyes flash at that. “ _Fun_ ,” he says. “Murder?”

            Dean absolutely does _not_ whimper when his bonds rub harshly against his chafed wrists. “Cas, _damn_ it, stop! This isn’t the answer. _God,_ just _think!_ ”

            He may as well have been talking to a wall. Castiel doesn’t even flinch. “You’re lying,” he tells M, and the straightforward calmness to his tone is somehow even more terrifying than his fury. “I know it was you. You’re the only one it could have been.”

            M’s forehead creases with his frown. “Something’s not right.”

            “Just admit it!” Castiel shouts abruptly. He swallows immediately. His eyes flutter shut for a few heartbeats, and when they open, they are blank once more. “Just… admit it. You aren’t doing yourself any favors here.”

            Watching M shake his head minutely, a sinking feeling begins to materialize in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “I’ve been set up. Listen, I’ve been set up. My name – my name is Crowley, Fergus Crowley, alright? Look it up. I was jailed, did six months. It couldn’t’ve been me. It made the news. Check. You’ll see.”

            A muscle ticks in Castiel’s jaw.

            “Cas,” Dean pleads, quieter this time. “Look at me.”

            At last, Castiel obeys. He locks eyes with Dean. It is then that Dean sees past the façade, reads what is written in those deep blue depths: Castiel does not _want_ Crowley to be telling the truth. He wants this vengeance. He wants it now. He does not want all of this to have been in vain.

            He has been waiting for _so long_. And Dean’s heart aches for him.

            “This isn’t you,” Dean repeats. “I know you, and this isn’t you. You wouldn’t hurt an innocent guy.”

            “We don’t know if he’s really innocent,” Castiel argues desperately, but the vigor in him is fading.

            Dean says, “Let me go,” and Castiel does.

            Rubbing his tender joints, Dean stands unsteadily. Castiel reaches for him to help, and there is apology and regret written in his gentle touch.

            “What the hell is this place?” Dean asks, looking around the warehouse. “Looks like nothing’s been here for twenty years.”

            “That’s because nothing has,” Castiel answers, speaking softly. “My father owns five properties in Manhattan. The brownstone is one. This warehouse is another. They were going to transform it into some kind of storage facility for his company, but they never finished the remodeling.” He’s still holding Dean’s wrists.

            Dean takes his hands away, his skin itching where Castiel was touching him.

            Crowley watches them with hooded eyes. “I know who you’re looking for,” he tells them suddenly.

            If Castiel’s head had snapped to him any faster, it just might have fallen off. “Speak,” he demands.

            Crowley sneers at him, his upper lip hooking as though it’s been caught on a fishing line. “Ask nicely.”

            “I don’t think you’re in any position to try shit like that,” Dean says. He doesn’t look at Castiel. His wrists are burning, but it’s nothing compared to the hurt in his chest. _That_ , Dean thinks, _is a whole ‘nother can of worms_. _Or poisonous snakes._ “Spill, _kitten_.”

            Crowley shifts his weight, the manacles clanking together loudly. “I’m not a serial killer,” he begins, glaring a little at Castiel’s disbelieving scoff. “I’m an _assassin._ For hire. I have an employer.”

            “We need a name,” Dean snaps.

            “I don’t have one.”

            Castiel immediately starts forward, held back only by Dean’s hand clamping around his arm. “Cas, you gotta chill,” he orders. “M – Crowley, there anything you _do_ know or are you gonna keep wasting our time?”

            Crowley surveys him for a moment before answering. “I’m not having anything to do with someone who’s framing me for stuff I didn’t do,” he says at last. “Ellsworth. Not the head honcho, but high up. I don’t know where he’s set up shop. But he can probably give you the information you want.” He eyes Castiel. “Or you could make him give it to you.”

            “Ellsworth,” Dean repeats. “Okay.”

            “My coat. Look in the top pocket.”

            Dean approaches slowly, grabbing the coat with two fingers. He chances a glance at Crowley’s hands. Hands that have tortured, that have killed, methodically, without a thought.

            “I can smell it on you,” Crowley mutters. Dean freezes. “You’ve done it too, haven’t you? Taken a life. It’s in your eyes.” He smirks. “The first is always the hardest. It gets easier. You’ll see.”

            Dean takes his hands back in a jerk, clutching a cellphone in one of them. He breathes deeply, turning his back on Crowley’s laugh.

            “Ellsworth and I coordinated for kill points and targets,” Crowley says, raising his voice so Castiel can hear him. “The messages are on there.”

            Dean unlocks the phone and sifts through the messages. Nothing but symbols and strings of letters. “This is garbage.”

            “It’s encrypted,” Castiel, who had come up behind Dean, says.

            “This all you got?” Dean asks, holding up the phone. “Half a name and, what, Wingdings?”

            Crowley merely looks at him. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” he says. “You don’t get far in this business by asking questions.” He shakes the manacles at them. “I played nice. Let me go.”

            Dean actually huffs a laugh at that. “Yeah, fat chance.”

            Crowley narrows his eyes. “I told you what I knew.”

            “You actually think we’re stupid enough to turn a mass murderer out on the streets? You’re hilarious.”

            Swearing, Crowley kicks out at them. Two mottled spots of red appear on his cheekbones. “Do _you_ actually think I’m stupid enough to go back out there? I’ve given you intel, boys, and sharing specs with the masses doesn’t go over well with these people.”

            Castiel squints at that. “You want us to turn you into the police?”

            “You say police, I say able bodyguards.”

            “You’ll go to prison.”

            Crowley’s eyes gleam. “Better than dead. The real M, that person’s someone you don’t want to cross. They’re the one who made me leave those ridiculous notes everywhere. They’re the one with the crusade against you, Novak. I have to say, I don’t envy your situation.” He sniffs a little, looking rather smug. “And once – if – you take down their base of operations, I won’t need to hide in a metal cage anymore. Don’t you worry about little old me.”

            Castiel cocks his head. He strides forward, plucks a blade from the table, and, before Dean can stop him, plunges it towards Crowley.

            Crowley flinches as the blade skims the side of his neck and lodges itself in one of the wood panels behind him.

            Castiel leans in close. “You may not have killed Meg,” he whispers. “But you did kill thirty-seven other people. You _will_ be punished for their deaths. I will make certain of it.”

ℵ

            “The hell do you mean, you’re turning yourself in?” Bobby asks for the fifth – no, sixth – time.

            They are in the interrogation room, Dean and Castiel standing against the wall. It’s a rather tense situation. Crowley is handcuffed to the table, sulking like a child. Bobby is sitting on the opposite side, a manila folder open in front of him, along with a sheet of paper on which Crowley has written down a list of all his “targets”. Dean has put a considerable amount of space between he and Castiel, who keeps glancing at him like Dean doesn’t notice. It pulls at something in the back of Dean’s throat.

            Crowley stares Bobby down. “I meant what I bloody well said,” he growls. “The boss has gone out of control, and I won’t be a part of it. Bad for business.”

            Bobby leans back, crossing his arms. “So you just, what? Thought you’d stroll in here and cop to mass murder? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

            “Out of my want to live,” Crowley corrects, putting his fingers together. “I told you, I have an employer. And they decided I wasn’t useful to them anymore, so they’re coming after me. I want a protective detail. Witness protection. The whole shebang.”

            “You don’t get witness protection in prison, bucko,” Bobby answers, tapping the syllables of the word _bucko_ on the metal of the table for emphasis. “You got anything on this employer of yours?”

            Crowley’s eyes flit to Castiel and back, growing blank on the return trip. “Like I said. It’s a closed operation. I didn’t get paid to ask about the man under the hood.”

            “No, you got paid to cut people open.”

            Raising his cuffed hands, Crowley makes some semblance of an apologetic shrug. “That’s what I’m here to confess.”

            Bobby raises his eyebrows at Dean and Castiel, more than a little disbelievingly. “You believe this?” Before either of them can answer, he frowns. “Hang on – what are you two even doing here?”

            Castiel doesn’t speak, so Dean dives for the ball. “Visiting the guys.” He waves as nonchalantly as his shaky hand allows. “We heard they’d brought him in and, well, you know Cas and his thing about M. He wanted to hear him confess. It’s a bit obsessive, but – ” He makes a _what can you do_ gesture that makes Castiel tense up all over.

            Bobby turns his gaze to Castiel, who pauses before awkwardly saying, “Yes. That’s – yes.”

            “And your, uh,” Bobby gestures at Dean’s temple, which is still blotched with dark purple. Dean raises a hand to it self-consciously. “What happened there?”

            “He slipped in the shower,” Castiel says right off the bat, and Dean turns his head to stare at him, mortified. The _implications_ alone.

            Bobby looks as though he’s learned something he never wanted to hear. “Alright,” he mutters gruffly. “You, uh – you watch yourself next time.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Dean chokes out, red to the roots of his hair.

            Bobby snaps the file in front of him shut, gathering up the papers and beginning to stand. He pushes his chair in with a shove. “Okay, well, then, Mr. Crowley, I’m going to take you to be processed. Now.”

            “And my protection detail?” Crowley asks as Bobby comes around to unlock the chain on his handcuffs from the table.

            Bobby rolls his eyes. “Will be arranged.”

            Crowley smiles at that. “That’s all I ask.”

ℵ

            “Dean, is something wrong?” Castiel asks as soon as they enter the brownstone.

            Dean sets Charlie’s laptop, carted back out of Castiel’s car, down on the kitchen table. “What makes you say that?”

            “You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

            “Ever think you’re just not that great to look at?”

            “Dean.”

            Dean turns around to face Castiel, spreading his arms wide. He gestures at his wrists, where lines of harsh red peek out from under his sleeves. “Maybe I’m not looking at you because I’m too busy trying to hide these from everyone,” he says, his temper beginning to rise.

            Castiel immediately looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

            “Yeah, ‘cause saying you’re _sorry_ is what you do after you fucking kidnap and tie up your friend.” Dean laughs, his voice getting higher and more hysterical with every word. “Oh, no, man, it’s all good. Because you’re _sorry._ ”

            “I didn’t – ” Castiel looks at a loss for words. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

            “Cas,” Dean says. “I get it. I get what you’re feeling, what you wanted with Crowley. I do. You thought it was justice, that it was right. But it wasn’t the answer. And it wasn’t going to bring you anything when you were done. That’s what I was trying to tell you when your fucking gun interrupted my train of thought.”

            Castiel takes a step towards him, hesitant and timid. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I panicked. I thought you were going to – ” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I thought you were going to do.”

            “What, sell you out?” Dean scoffs. “You really think I would do that? I was trying to _help_ you, dumbass. I know what it’s like to lose someone and want – want to destroy the person that did it. Don’t you dare fuckin’ act like you’re the only one in the world who’s hurting.”

            “I can’t take back what I did,” Castiel protests. “But I – I can try to atone for it. I’ll redeem myself to you, Dean.”

            The feeling under Dean’s chest is like a storm. Rolling and twisting, expanding and collapsing, swirling against the confines of his flesh. It is all consuming, centered in his stomach and heart, pushing against his lungs until they crumple. It makes Dean nauseated to think of it.

 _Betrayal,_ a thin voice whispers in his ear. _What you’re feeling is betrayal._

            _I thought I knew him_ , he murmurs back. _But I don’t think I know anything anymore._

            “That’s the thing,” Dean says, ignoring the solid lump in his throat and how it scratches to be released. His eyes are dry, though, as they had been in the first days after Sam’s death. Too full of sand for tears to bear witness. “You think this is about me. About what you did to me. But there’s something inside of _you_ , Cas, and it scares me. I don’t recognize it. I don’t think you do either. And I don’t think there’s anything you can do to fix it.”

            There’s a moment where everything seems to fall. Dean imagines Castiel’s skin as quicksand, watches his words shoot like bullets into that mud, quiver with their impact and begin to sink. Castiel shudders at their touch.

            “I – I don’t know what to say.”

            Dean looks away from Castiel. He can’t bear it, can’t bear the liquidity of Castiel’s eyes, can’t bear the tremor in his voice or the way his fingers keep curling, like they’re eager to reach out to something. He can’t bear the thought that that something might be him.

            “You don’t have to say anything,” he mutters. “I’ll help you with this – with capturing the real M. I’ll do that. But after that… I’m done. We’re done.”


	10. Chapter 10

            “Is it weird that I feel totally comfortable helping you guys illegally hack into some mass murderer’s phone?” Charlie asks two days later, taking her place in front of her laptop. “I feel like that’s kind of weird.”

            “Well, it wouldn’t be our lives if it wasn’t weird,” Dean says, propping his feet up on the kitchen table. He leans back in the chair, casting a reflexive glance out of the kitchen windows to their miserable excuse of a front yard. “You having any luck with that, by the way?”

            “I’m a hacker, not a magician,” Charlie answers. “Even with my super skills, it’s gonna take a few days. This is high-grade stuff. Someone _really_ doesn’t want you snooping around here.”

            She swirls around in her chair, leveling a stare at Dean. “Speaking of, when are you gonna stop being Mr. Broody and tell me what’s going on?”

            Dean groans. Castiel is out of the house, which means Charlie has cranked up her _spill-o-meter_ to twelve. “Nothing. Like I said. The past fifteen times.”

            “Thirteen,” Charlie corrects. “And Cas is saying the same thing, but – ”

            “You talked to Cas about this?” Dean asks, trying to ignore how his heart flutters at the mention of his name. They haven’t spoken directly since their fight beyond calling Charlie over for her help with Crowley’s phone.

            Charlie’s look turns cynical. “I would, if he’d bother answering me. The two of you are becoming, like, mope masters. If you looked out that window any more soulfully it’d probably shatter or something.”

            “I just like the view,” Dean protests feebly.

            “Of the front porch? Face it, you’re practically waiting at the door for him to get back.”

            “Charlie,” Dean warns, glaring at her from across the kitchen. “Knock it off.”

            Charlie harrumphs and turns back to her computer screen. “You’re pining, Dean.”

            “You’re annoying, Charlie.”

            “ _He’s_ pining, too. You’re both really gross.”

            Dean doggedly turns his head away from the kitchen window to inspect a growing hole in the knee of his jeans. He doesn’t want to think about Castiel _pining_ , whatever the fuck that means. He’s stoic. Indifferent. He doesn’t care, not a single goddamn _fucking_ bit –

            Right on cue, the door opens softly and Castiel’s footsteps shuffle through the entrance hallway. Charlie sends Dean a meaningful glower and Dean scrambles off the chair, running to make his way upstairs before –

            He catches himself just before he collides with Castiel, who is turning the corner into the kitchen.

            “Dean,” Castiel says, sounding surprised.

            Dean doesn’t say anything. He tears his eyes away from Castiel’s wide blue ones and sidesteps around him. “I’ll be in my room, Charlie,” he says loudly, to drown out the roaring in his ears.

            With that, he skirts another corner and takes the stairs two at a time, slamming the door to his room as if that could possibly alleviate the heavy weight on his chest.

ℵ

            Castiel feels the frigidity of Dean’s abrupt departure down to his toes. He takes a sharp breath, setting down the groceries he’d brought home as a half-assed peace gesture on the counter.

            “He’ll come around,” Charlie murmurs after a little while.

            Castiel shakes his head, clearing his throat before speaking. “No, he won’t.”

            “Just because you guys didn’t end up getting the real M doesn’t mean – ”

            “That’s not what happened, Charlie,” Castiel says forcefully. “That’s not all that happened. He has every right to be angry with me. I did things that warrant anger from him. That warrant more than anger from him. I don’t… I don’t blame him for wanting to leave.”

            Charlie looks up at that. “Leave? What are you talking about?”

            Sighing, Castiel takes the empty seat by her side, crossing his fingers together delicately. “After we find the real M, he’s moving back to his old apartment and leaving work with the precinct. He said… that he wants nothing to do with me anymore. Which is – it’s understandable. Of course.”

            His casualness is completely faked, obviously. He doesn’t fool anyone. Not Charlie. Not himself.

            Charlie kind of brushes her hand across his in a gesture that he guesses is supposed to be comforting. “You should talk to him.”

            Castiel could laugh. “No, I don’t think so. No… it’s probably better for everyone if I just… stay away.”

ℵ

            A few days later still, Charlie’s computer heralds a result.

            “I ran the code through a whole bunch of common cipher solvers, but it’s not Caesarian Shift or Vigenere or like any of those. So when that didn’t work I sent it through some basic de-encryption programs. Then when _that_ didn’t work, I – ”

            “Charlie, while we’re young?”

            “Right,” Charlie amends hastily. “I got you a last known address, but apparently these messages are encrypted with something that makes them – I don’t know, start breaking down? – after forty-eight hours. So I was able to trace the source of the sender but I don’t know what that Crowley guy’s next hit was supposed to be. Too much of that message was lost. I’d say you should maybe get this guy before someone else does the deed.”

            “Okay,” Dean says. He’s barely aware of the buzzing mess that is Castiel at his side. “Okay, this is a start. So, what? We head over to the address, kick some doors down?”

            “Yeah, no,” Charlie scoffs. “I thought you watched movies. Like, first of all, you’re not prepared at all. These guys are professional killers. You guys got muscle, but you’re like, kittens compared to them. Secondly, okay, say you get into the building before they shoot you out of the sky. What are you gonna do? Ask for Megamind’s secret identity politely and hope they’re feeling charitable?”

            “So what do you recommend we do?” Castiel asks.

            With a twinkle in her eye, Charlie smiles coyly at them.

            “We’re gonna go spy mode.”

ℵ

            “I’m in the middle of a Bond movie, aren’t I?” Dean asks as he watches Charlie outline the details of her master plan.

            Charlie smirks. “That kind of makes me a Bond girl, doesn’t it? I can dig that.”

            “Okay, so what do you have?”

            Charlie turns the piece of paper she’s been scribbling on so that Dean can see it. “We make a fake fingerprint.”

            Castiel looks at her. “Whose?”

            “Crowley’s,” Charlie answers. “From his testimony we know that he never met face-to-face with any of the guys above him, so it makes sense that they don’t know what he looks like. But if they have a fingerprint scanner at the address – which they totally would, because, hello, Evil Incorporated – then you could trick them into thinking one of you is Crowley and get info that way.”

            “I’ll do it,” Castiel offers immediately.

            “No,” Dean says. Castiel glances at him, as if shocked that Dean acknowledges his words. “You’ve been working this case for too long. They’ve specifically said they’re gonna come after you. They all probably know your face.”

            “You’re on their list as well.”

            Dean snorts bitterly. “They only said that to keep you in line. I’m not important to them. If they do know me or whatever, it’s just by name. Which Crowley’s fingerprint will get me around.”

            “You’re not putting yourself in danger for my sake.”

            “Wake up, will you?” Dean snaps. Charlie is forgotten, the room around them is forgotten. The only thing he sees is Castiel, surrounded with red. “It’s not all about you. This whole city’s at stake. Whatever these guys are cooking up, it’s major. They just want you out of the way because they think you can catch them. I’m not a threat to them.”

            “And if they hurt you anyway?” Castiel fires back, eyes burning. “I will not allow you to do something so reckless or stupid, I – ”

            “Oh, you won’t _allow_ me?” Dean raises his voice. “Grow up. The only stupid thing I did was agreeing to be your goddamn sober companion in the first place.”

            It’s Charlie’s quiet little “ _Oh_ ,” that yanks them both back into the present.

            The weight of what Dean has just admitted settles deeply in his bones. He wants to go back to ten seconds ago. But the words are already hanging in the air, unable to be reeled back, though Dean casts a desperate line. “I meant – that’s not what – ”

            “Stop, Dean,” Castiel says softly. There’s a moment where his voice shakes, but Dean must have imagined it, because his eyes are carefully blank. “You’re right. What are you, really?”

            He begins to walk stiffly from the room, casting a final glance over his shoulder when he reaches the door. “I want your things out of this house by tomorrow morning. Do what you will. But I don’t need you.” He pauses. “I never did.”

ℵ

            Dean sways back on his heels once Castiel is out of sight. He takes a seat, because he feels like the ground is about to fall out from under him and he needs something to grab onto.

            “What’s that you said about pining?” Dean asks Charlie, aiming for levity. His voice comes out at a croak.

            Charlie’s eyes glint. “He’s hurt, Dean. He thinks you hate him. He thinks you want to leave.”

            “Yeah, well, good for him,” Dean says harshly. “At least he’s got a couple things right.”

            “Dean,” Charlie murmurs in a pleading sort of way.

            “No,” Dean says shortly, tapping his fingers along Charlie’s planning sheet. “What is it you were saying about using Crowley’s fingerprint? How would we get it?”

            Charlie angles a confused look at him. “You still want to do it?”

            “M needs to be stopped, and it doesn’t matter how much that asshole thinks he can get this done on his own, he’s not _that_ good. So. How are we getting Crowley’s fingerprint?” Dean shuffles a little bit. “And – can I move in with you for a few days?”

ℵ

            Charlie slides out of the precinct with her arms pressed tightly to her sides. She gets into the Impala, where Dean has been waiting at the curbside for her, and pulls the file out from under her jacket.

            “This is it. Crowley’s file,” she says, handing it over.

            Dean flicks to the page where Crowley rolled his ink-stained fingerprints into the appropriate boxes. “And this is really going to work?”

            “It’d be better to have something fresher,” Charlie admits. “But it should work.”

            “Alright,” Dean says, stowing the file in the backseat. “Let’s get started.”

ℵ

            Dean packs up his things while Charlie examines the best way to create a fake fingerprint. It’s not much – Dean is surprised that having been housed at the brownstone for three months, he hasn’t left more of an impression on the place, but he supposes that’s what he is in Castiel’s world now. A ghost.

            He folds the last of his clothes and shoves them into a suitcase. He zips up his toiletries in a brown canvas bag and clips it to the suitcase handle. He wraps up his chargers and his headphones and packs them into a backpack.

            Finally he looks over at Sam the ladybug, still in his terrarium on top of the dresser.

            _“You must be very special, Dean Winchester,”_ Castiel had said.

            Dean shivers at the memory. That had been before – before Dean had talked about Sam, before Castiel had talked about Meg, before both their worlds, already upside-down, had been kicked to the ends of the earth.

            “Yeah, I’m special, all right,” Dean mutters to the emptied room. “Only special people manage to fuck up enough to lose everyone they care about.” _Their brother, their best friend._

‘Best friend’ is such an odd term to describe Castiel. Dean supposes that’s what he is, though Castiel isn’t the typical best friend type. But, then again, Dean has never been one to do things in a typical fashion.

            Dean walks over to the terrarium, wiping off the fog of his breath from the glass, tapping at the mesh top of it. He picks it up carefully, tucking it under his arm, and leaves the room.

            He runs into Castiel at the door to the brownstone. Castiel’s gaze travels from Dean’s face to the suitcase in his hand and he pales considerably. “So you’re leaving?”

            “You told me to,” Dean answers as coolly as he can muster. “And you’re kind of blocking the door.”

            Castiel nods once, inching around Dean. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. Dean looks down at Sam, who is skittering around his terrarium as if he senses the tension. At last, he holds the terrarium out to Castiel.

            “You’re the bug expert.” He clears his throat quietly, shaking his arm until Castiel grabs hold of the glass. “Take care of him.”

            Castiel looks more than a little bewildered. “I couldn’t possibly keep him.”

            “He likes it here,” Dean says, turning his face away. “We both did.”

            The door swings shut behind Dean. Between he and the place – and the person – he’d begun to call home.

ℵ

            Charlie’s apartment, Dean finds, is not anything splendid.

            Not that the brownstone had been splendid. It had actually been spectacularly unimpressive. Kept clean only by the sweat on Dean’s brow. A slapdash collection of personalities, with Dean’s music cassettes cluttering the windowsills and Castiel’s apiaries up on the roof.

            Dean had never gotten around to asking him which flowers he’d planted. If he’d ended up making that garden for Sam the ladybug.

            But the brownstone had been theirs. They’d hollowed it out together, left their touches on its walls. They had memories there. The end of the bannister that always stuck out, where Dean had once stubbed his toe and sat there cursing while Castiel prepared an ice pack and joked about childproofing the house. The odd, knobby mantle over the fireplace where Castiel would put things he’d find while out on a walk – a rock he insisted looked just like Dean’s ear, a sprig of dried rosemary, a penny he’d found warped under a street light.

            Dean and Sam had never really had a home growing up. After their mother had died, their father had lost interest in the basic necessities of life. Feeding his children, for example. John Winchester was an alcoholic who never could hold down a job for longer than a few weeks. No job meant a foreclosure on their old house, and so they had jumped around from motel to motel while John tried to find a single city in the country that would have a job for him. After a while he stopped trying, and Dean picked up the slack wherever he could.

            His apartment on the other side of Manhattan had been his pride and joy. He’d finally had enough money to settle down in a place of his own while he shoved John into a rehabilitation clinic and Sam into college. But the apartment hadn’t really been home either. It was a place to sleep and eat. After Sam and before Castiel, Dean hadn’t really allowed himself to belong anywhere. He’d drifted. And Castiel had tethered him.

            Dean sets his things down in Charlie’s spare bedroom and lies on the mattress. It’s too springy. The pillow is too hard.

            Charlie knocks lightly on the door, opening it when Dean doesn’t say anything. “Hey, everything good? Do you need anything?” She slides her hands down her legs nervously. “I don’t really play hostess a lot.”

            “Nah, I’m good,” Dean lies, fixing Charlie with an easy grin.

            “Okay!” Charlie says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “That means we can talk about this whole you and Cas situation.”

            Dean throws an arm over his eyes. “I lied. I do need something. An aspirin for the headache you’re about to give me.”

            “Don’t be an ass.” Charlie shifts a little. “Okay, first of all, what’s up with the whole sober companion thing?”

            Dean sighs. He knows Charlie won’t let it go until she knows everything. So he sits up, resting his back against the unpolished headboard. “I was hired by Cas’ dad to be his sober companion. That’s how we met. Cas was… he was a junkie.” _Don’t use that word._

            Charlie whistles. “Wow. And Bobby still let him work with us?”

            “I don’t think he knows,” Dean says uncomfortably. “But Cas is better now. Anyway, that’s why I was living with him. It was part of the program. And then when Bobby convinced me to stay on and keep working cases, I just kind of didn’t move out.”

            “What was it?” Charlie asks, and Dean knows exactly what she means.

            “The M case. That’s why he’s so worked up about it. He had this girlfriend or something who got killed by him. You probably read up on her. Meg Masters.”

            Charlie’s eyes widen, and she nods. “Yeah, I remember that. They never found her body.”

            “Right. So he just sort of lost it after that and started using,” Dean continues. “When M popped back up here, he told me the whole deal.”

            Realization dawns in Charlie’s eyes. “That’s how you knew he wasn’t M.”

            Dean smiles wryly in response.

            Charlie groans. “You must’ve thought we were such _morons._ ”

            “No, not morons, just, you know – uninformed,” Dean corrects.

            “ _God_ , you got so mad about it, too. We felt bad for you,” Charlie admits quietly. “We thought you were just in denial or something. And Victor thought – ” She closes her mouth abruptly, glancing fearfully at Dean.

            Dean narrows his eyes. “Victor thought what?”

            “You know how he gets sometimes,” Charlie says awkwardly. “He still thinks you and Cas have, like, a _thing._ That you guys haven’t told us about. And that the reason you were so defensive that night was because, well…”

            “He thought I’m in love with Cas,” Dean says flatly, vehemently disregarding the way something stirs in his chest at the word “love”, “and that’s why I didn’t believe he was a murderer? Jeez, where do they find these guys?”

            “He didn’t mean it like that. He was just skeptical or whatever about how objective you could be. It’s totally uncool. You’re a professional. But… you know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you on the outs with Cas, and you’re in a bad way,” Charlie begins to stand, making her leave. “I’m just saying. There’s something different about you when you’re with him. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

ℵ

            Charlie does manage to come up with something regarding the fake fingerprint. She talks about a digital rendering on a transparency slide, glycerin, and something about a laser printer, but Dean kind of loses her around “optimized humidity”.

            What she holds up, then, is a glycerin-based mold of Crowley’s fingerprint. “So we glue this onto your finger and voila! Carbon-copied Crowley. Except for your face, your hair, and your dashing charm.”

            “Oh, so it’s perfect then.”

            Charlie rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, but seriously, there’s like a really slim – slimmer than slim – chance that this is gonna work. So you gotta be prepared for anything. I’m gonna be on your six, but I haven’t ever done any undercover stuff. That’s FBI shit. So, like, last shot to back out.”

            Dean reaches for the mold, holding it up to the light. “I don’t back out.”

ℵ

            The brownstone is chillingly empty without Dean’s energy filling the atmosphere.

            Castiel stands in the middle of the living room. He rubs his hands together, remembering the night – not too long ago at all, but it seems to Castiel as though it had passed lifetimes ago – when, lost in thought, he’d drowned himself in liquor. The gentleness with which Dean had treated him after the initial shock. How he had carved out his space by Castiel on the bed and held Castiel’s hand until they’d fallen asleep.

            They’d never spoken about it. Castiel thinks there are a lot of things they’ve never spoken about, but probably should have. Castiel had never spoken about how, in that vulnerable moment between alcohol-soaked consciousness and blissful rest, he had experienced a ripping pain in his chest so loud he could’ve sworn his heart was screaming. How the strength in Dean’s fingers as they pressed against Castiel’s made him feel so weak. How fiercely the fire inside of Castiel had roared with the tenderness of Dean’s words.

            There had been a night where he’d found himself at the entrance to Dean’s room. Dean had stirred, and Castiel had told him to sleep. Castiel himself had no real explanation for why he had wound up there. It had been the same day that he had finally admitted aloud that Meg’s death had been the reason he’d started using drugs. And Dean had taken it in stride. No pity, no confusion or disappointment. None of anything that Castiel had become accustomed to in the previous year. He had felt connected to someone for the first time in forever.

            He’d wanted to say something to Dean, that night. Anything. But Dean had stirred, and Castiel had told him to sleep.

            Meg had intrigued him. Dean enraptures him, wholly and completely.

            And Castiel had kicked him out.

            He’d been hurt and he’d been spiteful, Castiel knows. He doesn’t know if he ever really expected Dean to leave. _That’s the price I pay,_ Castiel thinks, _for having hope._

            Now the brownstone is empty, and Castiel is left feeling colder than he ever remembers feeling before.

            He climbs to the roof. Standing apiaries line the right side, while the left is covered with potted plants and tubs of flowers. He runs his fingers across the gardenias and the bluebells, making his way over to his netted, makeshift greenhouse. It’s the size of a dog cage, stuffed with calendulas and cosmos. When he looks inside, he sees Sam the ladybug resting on the slender petal of a vibrant orange calendula.

            “I told Dean I would take care of you,” Castiel murmurs, refilling Sam’s bottle cap of sugar water. “It’s the one promise I can keep.”

            He’d made up his mind the moment that Dean had closed the door behind him. Dean is gone, but there is still something Castiel can do. He can bring down M himself.

            _I’m never going to see Dean again, anyway,_ Castiel thinks, touching Sam with one feather-light finger. For luck. _At least this way I can try to make everything right once more._

ℵ

            The address leads them to the headquarters for the Typhon Corporation, pet-named TyphoCorp. Naturally, it’s one of the biggest fucking businesses based in New York City, and a monster of a building. It’s a pharmaceutical company that has its name and propaganda plastered in every subway station and billboard in the country.

            Dean cranes his neck, staring blankly up at the very top of the building. “Charlie,” he says, feeling queasy. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

            “You’ll do great,” she answers, with the optimism akin to that which a fish would have of breathing out of the water. “Just don’t lose the character.”

            “Are you kidding me?” Dean whispers viciously. “I feel like if I _breathe_ wrong, they’ll shoot me.”

            Charlie gives him a little shove in the direction of the glass double doors. “I’m right here. And you’ve got the earpiece in, right? I’ll hear everything you do. If I think there’s trouble, I’ll call Bobby.”

            “He’s gonna have our asses for this.”

            “That’s cool. Mine’s pretty flat, anyway.”

            Dean exhales sharply, shaking out his nerves. “Fine. Fine! Shit, _fuck_ , fine. Okay. I’m going.” He starts walking. “If I die, for the love of God, make them play good music at my funeral.”

ℵ

            Dean approaches the front desk with the feeling of a man walking to his own hanging. The chair there is occupied by a dark-haired woman in the company colors of black and deep violet.

            _You’re Crowley,_ Dean reminds himself. _You’re not Dean Winchester, you’re Fergus fuckin’ Crowley. Killer. Killer who’s pretentious as fuck._

“Hello, sweetheart,” Dean says, flashing a wicked grin. “I’m here to see the boss.”

            The woman glances at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Name? Reason for visiting?”

            “Crowley,” Dean answers, figuring the last name is all she needs. He’s right. She puts down the pen she’s playing with and looks more appreciatively at him. “Don’t really think I need the rest of that now, do I?”

            The woman stands and comes around the side of the desk, extending a slender hand. “Mr. Crowley. My name is Ruby. I wasn’t aware that Mr. Ellsworth was expecting you. What can I help you with?”

            Dean grasps her hand for the least amount of time he can. “It’s a surprise,” he says, shooting her a wink. “I have intel that’s on a need-to-know basis, and you, darling,” he adds, with a meaningful glance at the front desk, “aren’t need-to-know.”

            Ruby’s eyes darken, but the professional smile remains fixed in place. “I’m the regional manager for this corporation. Believe me, I know all about your… proclivities.”

            Dean _tut_ s and clasps his hands behind his back. “Now _what_ is the regional manager doing pulling desk duty?”

            “That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Ruby says, batting her eyelashes. “ _Darling._ ”

            Whistling lowly, Dean shakes his head. “Touché.”

            Ruby shakes out her hair. “Mr. Ellsworth should just be coming out of a meeting. I’ll take you to his office.”

            She leads the way to the elevators, where two men stand on guard. Dean grins at them both and gets twin glares in return. Ruby taps at the screen by the elevator door, and – there it is. The fingerprint scanner.

            Ruby looks at him in a way that Dean thinks is supposed to be apologetic, but it comes off as rather vindictive. “For Mr. Ellsworth’s security, TyphoCorp has to validate everyone who wants to access his office floor. You understand, of course. Our enemies are numerous.”

            “I’ll bet,” Dean mutters, rubbing his thumb over the gummed mold on his finger, “though I’m insulted you think I’d ever try to deceive you.” _Don’t lose the character._ He reaches his hand forward and rests his index finger against the scanner, praying that it doesn’t show picture identification.

            When the screen beeps green and displays nothing but _Crowley, Fergus. Validated._ , Dean nearly stops breathing with relief.

            The elevator doors slide open and he steps aside, Ruby close on his heels. The entire time the elevator is rising, Dean can feel Ruby’s stare on the back of his head.

            “Fergus,” she says at last. “Unfortunate name.”

            “It’s a family thing,” Dean says brusquely, somewhat offended. But that’s a ridiculous sentiment.

            The elevator reaches the top floor without a sound and opens to a large room decorated with dark mahogany. A waiting room of some kind. The far side of the room is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass paneling and a heavily veneered door. The sign by the door announces it as the office of one D. Ellsworth, CEO.

            An additional guard, standing outside the door, gives them a cursory glance before nodding.

            Ruby knocks before entering the office. A superfluous gesture, as the glass walls allow for clear visual on both sides.

            The man that greets them is dressed in a prim suit. His beard is carefully groomed and cut close to his skin. He is standing in the center of the office, holding a tumbler of scotch close to his body. His eyes flicker when he sees Dean. “Mr. Crowley,” he says amiably enough, if a bit warily.

            “Ellsworth,” Dean responds in the same tone. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

            Ellsworth frowns softly. “I thought you were a Brit.”

            _Shit._ Dean’s heart thumps hard, once. “I am when I need to be,” he answers easily, forcing his mouth to turn up. He hopes it’s typical-evil-villain vague enough to be plausible.

            It seems to work, because after a moment, Ellsworth smiles back. “Right. Ruby, you’re excused.”

            Ruby looks as though she’s about to argue, but instead her lips just twitch and she strides out of the room. Ellsworth watches her until the elevator doors close and then turns back to Dean.

            “Mr. Crowley,” he says again. “How can I help you?”

            Dean clears his throat. _Stick to the script._ “I need contact with M. I know you have it.”

            Ellsworth laughs. He takes a sip of scotch, mulling it over in his mouth before answering. “You know the rules, Crowley. You respect the hierarchy.”

            “The job that M’s given me,” Dean says, remembering the message that had broken down. “It’s high risk. I want to know that I’ll be putting my neck on the line for the real thing.”

            Ellsworth looks mildly surprised. “You think I’m making up the hit?”

            “I think there are a lot of people on this ladder,” Dean responds coyly, lifting an eyebrow, “and it might just be someone wants an itch scratched.”

            “They’re all itches that need to be scratched,” Ellsworth snorts. “Bugs begging to be squashed.”

            “I’m saying this might be a personal vendetta.” Dean’s skin crawls at Ellsworth’s words. _These are people,_ he wants to scream. _They’re not candles, you’re not the wind. You have no right to snuff them out._ “And I don’t appreciate being treated like a dog playing fetch. So I’ll tell you again. I want to confirm the hit with M. No more middlemen on this one.”

            Ellsworth takes another drink from his scotch. Dean trembles a little at the sight of the amber liquid. _Focus_ , he tells himself, ripping his eyesight back up to Ellsworth’s face. “I don’t understand how you could doubt that this is M’s pick,” Ellsworth says slowly. “The detective has been a nuisance for a very long time.”

            Dean’s heart stops and starts again in double time. _It’s Cas. Cas was the intended hit._ Dean’s stomach straps itself in on a rollercoaster ride, and he loses his voice for half a second. “The detective isn’t a threat,” he manages once his throat unsticks. “I’ve been tailing him. He’s not touching us.”

            “I think you underestimate his resolve.” Ellsworth turns away, moving to his desk. “Above everything else, Castiel Novak has always placed a piece of himself in the people he,” and here Ellsworth stops to make a disgusted sneer, “loves. You know how he reacted after he lost that whore of his.”

            Dean makes his face laugh. “Yeah, I heard.”

            Ellsworth turns back around, holding up a small remote. “Imagine how he’ll react when he loses you, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean doesn’t even have a moment to say or do anything. His body freezes in shock, Ellsworth clicks a button on the remote, and something bursts and crackles in Dean’s ear. He cries out in pain, digging out the dead earpiece and throwing it to the ground.

            “Now,” Ellsworth says smoothly, leaning back against his desk. “Let’s _really_ talk.”


	11. Chapter 11

            Seventy-three stories below, Charlie’s computer flashes a warning message. _Device connection lost_ is what it says. “Oh, _fuck,_ ” is what Charlie says.

ℵ

            Castiel drives. The address is burned at the front of his mind. Right, left, left. He’s nothing but steel now, steel and hardened marble. Nothing can touch him now.

ℵ

            “How did you know?” Dean asks harshly, refusing to show his fear.

            Ellsworth laughs lowly and languidly, swirling his scotch around in his glass. “Did you really believe that we wouldn’t find out the second that Fergus Crowley was apprehended?”

            Dean curls his fingers into his palm, hardly daring to believe his own stupidity. In all their planning, it had never once occurred to him or to Charlie that these guys might deign to pick up a newspaper. “You were playing me.”

            “You’ll find, I think,” Ellsworth says, “that we were playing each other. And thank you, by the way, for proving that our little message dissolving program works.”

            Dean stares at him. “Cas wasn’t the hit.”

            “It was a janitor in the Bronx.” Ellsworth smirks. “But I’m sure he appreciates how much you care.”

            “What the hell do you want with me?”

ℵ

            Castiel finds a parking garage three blocks from TyphoCorp. He keeps his eyes on the building as he walks, a shadow among shadows, barely murmuring apologies when he bumps shoulders with people on the street. He finds himself at the double doors before he expects to, and stares at the handles as if willing them to open for him.

            _They’ll take me to M,_ he thinks dully, _and he’ll kill me. And maybe then he’ll be satisfied. Maybe then he’ll leave Dean alone._

Distantly, he hears a car door slam.

            “Castiel!” A hand on his shoulder, whipping him around. Charlie.

            “Charlie? What are you doing here?”

            Charlie is a cheerful person. She makes a lot of jokes. She has a pretty laugh. But there is something all wrong with her face.

            She points at the building with a shaky finger, her cheeks pale. “Dean’s in there.”

            A crack, like someone has split every bone in Castiel’s body all at once. “What?”

            “ _Dean’s_ in there!” Charlie looks absolutely frazzled. “He went in there to – to find out where M was, and I had him connected to an earpiece, but that Ellsworth guy figured it out and shorted the earpiece out somehow and I was just about to call Bobby when I saw you and – ”

            “Don’t call Bobby,” Castiel says shortly, his veins shot through with ice. His heart is pounding out monosyllabically. _Dean, Dean, Dean._ “Get in your car, Charlie.”

            “ _What_? I just told you – ”

            “I know what you told me. Now listen to what I’m telling you.” Castiel stares at the glass doors, at the front desk inside. “Get in your car. I’ll be back.”

            Dean needs his help. Castiel will help. Castiel will help until there is no fight left in him.

            Charlie gets into her car, watching ashen-faced from the window. Castiel draws himself up and enters the building.

            By the way the eyes of the woman at the front desk widen, she recognizes him immediately. She calls for guards, two of which come sprinting from the direction of the elevator.

            _Dean, Dean, Dean._

Castiel punches the first one to reach him in the stomach, drawing a hissing wheeze from the man. He ducks the other one’s throw and shoves the first guard at him, pushing them both down. The second one scrambles to stand, pulling some kind of weapon from his belt. Castiel doesn’t stop to look what it is. He kicks out flat-footed, slamming his heel into the man’s hand. From his scream, something’s broken. The weapon clatters to the floor.

            Something sounds from behind Castiel. He whirls around, hitting the first guard in the head. Castiel watches his eyes roll back into his head as he collapses.

            The second guard is cradling his hand to his chest but still lashing out with his other, weaker hand. He grabs a fistful of Castiel’s hair and slams his head into the wall.

            Castiel doesn’t pass out, but it’s a near thing. He feels sticky blood drip down the side of his face.

            He throws his arms out behind him blindly but with enough force to knock the other man off him. He turns, aims a cuff upside the chin, and the second guard joins his comrade on the floor.

            Castiel straightens, breathing hard and bleeding from his temple. He’s dizzy, but it’s manageable.

            The woman is standing two feet in front of him, a remote alarm in her hand, triumph in her eyes. “I can have the police here in minutes,” she informs him victoriously. “You won’t be able to – ”

            Castiel punches her in the nose.

            She stumbles back and the remote falls, bursting apart when it hits the floor.

            “A little advice,” Castiel growls, grabbing her. “Shut up.”

            He drags her to the elevator door, splaying her fingers until he finds the one used for the scanner. The screen flares green and the elevator doors open.

            _Dean, Dean, Dean._

ℵ

            Ellsworth sets the glass down very carefully on his desk. “Do you know who Typhon was, Dean?”

            Dean shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. He chances a glance at the door, where the guard still stands, oblivious. “I don’t know, the guy who spread typhoid fever?”

            Smiling, Ellsworth shakes his head. “Typhon was a god. A monster-god. He was the son of Gaia, the Earth, and Tartarus, the deepest, blackest pit of the Underworld. And he was the nightmare story that the Greeks told their children to beware. Nothing was as feared by the gods of Olympus as Typhon.”

            He begins to approach Dean, who stands his ground. “Imagine – a giant, so tall his head touches the stars, with viper coils instead of legs. Hundreds of wings all over his body. Snakes for fingers. He was the deadliest creature, the most horrifying, and the father of all monsters.”

            “Sounds like a stand-up guy,” Dean says bitingly. “Where’s the point, and why aren’t you there yet?”

            Ellsworth’s smile turns cold. His eyes glitter darkly. “My point is that you just walked into Typhon’s mouth, and he breathes fire.”

            He goes to grab Dean by the front of his shirt, but a movement distracts them both.

            Namely, the elevator doors sliding open.

            _Cas?_

The guard goes for his gun immediately. Dean watches Castiel surge forward and snap his fist across the guard’s face, slamming his elbow down on the man’s neck. The guard doubles over and tackles Castiel around the waist. On the floor, Castiel kicks the man’s legs out from under him. He falls to the ground, hits the back of his head against the glass partition, and stills.

            Ellsworth has Dean pinned back-to-front before Dean can react. He struggles, but Ellsworth is unnervingly strong.

            Castiel sees them through the glass. He locks eyes with Dean. The side of his face is slicked red. His chest is heaving. There’s blood on his teeth.

            He pushes through the door and makes to help Dean, but Ellsworth stops him with a soft croon. Dean feels a kiss of metal under his jaw. A pocketknife. He’s being threatened with a pocketknife. Dean almost wants to laugh.

            “Back up there, detective. Wouldn’t want my hand to slip.”

            Castiel manages to look angry, helpless, and frustrated all at once. Shaking with rage, he moves back. “Let him go.”

            “Oh, gladly,” Ellsworth says. “Where should I put him? Out the window? Seventy-three stories, you know. He might even dent the sidewalk.”

            “Hey, buddy,” Dean interrupts conversationally. “I ever tell you my dad was a Marine? He taught me a couple tricks.”

            He stomps down on Ellsworth’s foot at the same time that he grabs his arm and twists it back. The shock to Ellsworth’s system makes him drop the knife. Dean punches him in the face and he falls.

            “You forgot to mention one thing about Typhon,” Dean spits. “He talks too much.”

ℵ

            “You’re bleeding,” Dean says when he looks back at Castiel.

            Castiel shrugs, touching a finger to the side of his head. “You needed my help.”

            Something warm builds in Dean’s stomach. He’s afraid to touch it. “How did you know I was here? Charlie?”

            Looking away, Castiel frowns. “No. Well, she saw me downstairs and told me you were here, but that’s not… why _I_ was here.”

            The information settles in Dean’s mind with a click. After everything he’s been through today, it’s surprising to him that _this_ is what upsets him the most. “You were gonna turn yourself in.”

            “I was going to do it to protect you,” Castiel says. “I thought that if they had me, they wouldn’t come after you.”

            “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Dean snaps, stepping away from Castiel. “You thought you’d just – what – serve yourself up on a fucking silver platter like a piece of meat? It _never_ occurred to you that they’d just kill you?”

            “Of course it occurred to me,” Castiel murmurs, and that’s it, Dean’s sure he’s lost it. “But I thought… that if you were safe, that it would be worth it.” He moves forward, filling the space that Dean just vacated. “I made you a promise a long time ago, Dean, that removing you from my life was never an option. Do you honestly think that sentiment has changed?”

            Dean’s throat clenches at that. He feels a terribly familiar burning at the backs of his eyes, and curses silently. “And removing you from my life?” he whispers furiously. “That’s okay? You’re so goddamn _selfish_ , Cas.”

            Castiel looks as lost as Dean feels.

            “You’re the one who let me walk out that door, Cas,” Dean says. “You’re the one who told me to go.”

            “You said you were going to leave anyway,” Castiel reminds him. “And I thought… that at least you stood a chance of living, if you left. But you came here anyway.” Castiel looks at him funnily. “You came here anyway. Why did you come here?”

            Dean glares at him, his neck flushing hot. “I made you a promise, too. That I’d see this case through to the end. But the plan didn’t work.” He gestures towards the inert figures of Ellsworth and the guard. “Obviously.”

            Castiel’s eyes follow the direction of Dean’s movement and rest on Ellsworth’s back. “We’ll come up with a new plan.”

            “We?”

            Castiel looks back at Dean, his face flashing with a desperate sort of hope. Dean eyes the blood on his face, remembers how he fought the guard. He’d been chaotic but focused. _You needed my help._ He’d done that for Dean. Because he had thought Dean was in danger.

            Dean isn’t sure how he feels about that. It’s all manners of confusing. But still, at the center of the vortex, that ball of warmth. It does not move. It does not stutter. So he nods.

            “We should get out of here.”

ℵ

            The minutes pass and neither Dean nor Castiel appear back downstairs. Charlie is kind of going totally out of her mind. She’s just waiting for the moment where all the screens in the city switch to a live feed of M declaring he’s killed their heroes, _who will save your city now, I’m –_

            A hurried knocking on her car window nearly makes her jump out of her skin. Dean and Castiel are standing there. One white-faced and the other red-faced. _Bleeding._ Charlie unlocks the doors for them immediately.

            “I’m fine,” Castiel grumbles at the look on Charlie’s face as he gets in.

            “What the _hell_ is it with you getting yourself beaten up?” Charlie demands. “And _you!_ ” She turns on Dean, who holds his hands up, bewildered. “ _Letting_ him!”

            “Charlie, priorities,” Dean says. “There are like five unconscious people in there and it ain’t gonna be long before someone finds them. Let’s go.”

            “Wait,” Castiel says. “My car. It’s in the parking garage.”

            “I’ll get it,” Charlie volunteers, because Dean and Castiel keep sending _Looks_ at each other and she might just choke. “You take my car. Where are we going?”

            “The brownstone,” Dean answers at once. In the rearview mirror, Charlie sees a soft smile lift the corners of Castiel’s mouth.

            Yeah. Charlie’s gonna gag.

            In, like, the sweetest, most supportive way ever.

ℵ

            The night wears on, and the mess is cleaned up. The guards are disposed of cleanly, quietly, brought to their ends for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A man and a woman stand and watch as their bodies are loaded up for dumping. The woman catches sight of one of them before he is covered, a single hole in his skull. No rifling. Untraceable.

            “They were expendable,” the woman sighs, muttering. “I hate wasting resources on things that are expendable.”

            “It had to be done,” the man answers. “They would’ve gone straight to M.”

            The truck pulls away, headlights off, swallowed by darkness. The man and woman are left standing.

            A small click is all the warning the man has. He ducks just as the woman pulls the trigger, a silenced shot that sounds like thunder to the man’s ears. He bowls the woman over, pinning her down, throwing the gun.

            Blind fury pounds in her muscles. “It has to be done,” she spits, quoting his words mockingly. “M isn’t happy with the way you handled the Novak crisis.”

            “I _handled_ it perfectly, Ruby,” the man hisses. “You’re the one who went and told on me. _You_?”

            “You got him all cut up, Ellsworth. M likes golden apples, not bruised ones.”

            “M can go to hell,” Ellsworth growls. “I was after the friend, not the detective. Leverage. You know M likes to be a step ahead of everyone else.”

            Ruby laughs throatily, breathing hard under the weight of the man. “Hurt the friend, hurt the detective. You know that.”

            “Yeah?” Ellsworth says, and slams Ruby’s head into the ground, hard, knocking her unconscious. She breathes, but shallowly, and blood pools around her like a halo of horror. She won’t last long alone out here. Ellsworth stands, brushing the dirt from his palms, the scum from under his fingernails. “I think it’s actually hurt the detective, hurt M. And I kind of _really_ want to hurt M.”

ℵ

            Charlie wrings every last detail of their encounter with Ellsworth from them before they finally manage to shepherd her out of the house.

            About two seconds after Castiel closes the door behind her, it dawns on Dean that he didn’t leave with her. “Wait, Cas,” he says, and from the strained look on Castiel’s face, the same thought has occurred to him.

            Dean isn’t sure of what to do. He doesn’t want to leave. Stepping into the brownstone for the first time since he’d left had brought about such an intense feeling of relief and – dare he say it – happiness of which he isn’t too eager to rid himself.

            But he can’t read Castiel. He says he wants one thing and acts upon some other obscure desire. He takes a chance anyway. _All or nothing_ , he thinks. _This is me giving you all._

            “Cas,” Dean repeats, uncertainly. “I – I mean, you don’t mind – ”

            “You can stay, Dean,” Castiel answers, and the seriousness with which he speaks scrapes a little at Dean’s heart. “Of course you can stay.”

            “You sure?”

            Castiel smiles a little. “Can I tell you something, Dean?”

            “Yeah.”

            “London was never home for me. Growing up in America, I found my place here. But still, there was – something missing. People would look at me strangely when I spoke. I was there, but it was like… I wasn’t.”

            Dean clears his throat. He doesn’t want to ask the question that’s on the tip of his tongue, knows Castiel’s answer might rip him to shreds, but he asks anyway. “What about when you were with Meg?”

Castiel looks away from Dean then. “Meg was – I don’t know what she was. But I know that never – _never_ – have I felt more like I belong than I do here, in this brownstone. With you.”

            It is at the moment, when Dean’s smile is just beginning to form, that Castiel’s eyes widen marginally and everything _explodes._

            Castiel grabs Dean and pulls both of them down just as a resounding crack splits the air. Castiel lurches forward into Dean’s chest and shouts in pain and oh _God_ , his back is slick with blood and Dean is hauling him back, fleeing the man that has just appeared in their home with a gun.

            “It’s Ellsworth,” Castiel pants. “Run, Dean, you have to get away!”

            “You’re fucking joking,” Dean snaps, and that’s that. Ellsworth turns the hall corner and Dean lunges for him, knocking the gun away and kneeing the other man in the stomach. Ellsworth groans, but shoves Dean back into the stairs, where Castiel is unsteadily trying to get to the second floor.

            Dean turns and sprints, snaking an arm around Castiel’s waist and lugging them both up the staircase. He doesn’t look back, not even when he hears the clatter that means Ellsworth has retrieved the gun.

            He gets them into the first room they come to, and Castiel slumps onto the floor wordlessly. He is conscious, but breathing heavily, and has not stopped bleeding. After locking the door, Dean takes a five second assessment, realizes that no major arteries have been hit, and begins to look for an escape.

            The window is the most obvious answer, but when Dean runs over he realizes that it’s a twenty-five foot drop straight onto concrete.

            It is then that the adrenaline gives sudden, lurching way to panic.

            “Cas, are you okay?” Having given up on the window, Dean runs back over to Castiel and crouches by him. Castiel hisses a few words at him, something along the lines of “asshole” and “should’ve run when you had the chance”.

            Dean is about to answer, but the door shakes and splinters and slams open and the hall lamp shines sickly yellow light on Ellsworth’s face and everything stops.

            Ellsworth’s nose is bleeding from one of Dean’s haphazard punches. When he speaks, he is breathless with a sort of elated fury. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time, Mr. Novak,” he whispers, eyes fixed on Castiel.

            Castiel lets out a low groan of pain, but his eyebrows are narrowed and there is an expression of stubborn disdain that is so out of place and inappropriatethat Dean, in that moment, feels a wild spark of affection. “What was keeping you?” he asks roughly.

            Ellsworth _tsk_ s, snapping his tongue across his lips. In the shadows falling across his face, his eyes look black. “I was under strict orders. M said you were not to be harmed.” He smiles wolfishly. “But about an hour ago, she tried to have me killed. I find I’ve no mood to follow orders when I’ve become a target.”

            “She?” Castiel spits out, looking frazzled. Ellsworth lifts his gun in response. His finger is just beginning to pull the trigger when a barrage of loud pops breaks the air. The bullets slam into Ellsworth’s back, knocking him forward. He dies without a sound.

            Dean kneels in front of Castiel, ready to defend him from the second shooter. Castiel curses at him and grabs his arm, his hand tightening in a viselike grip. He is incredibly warm, and somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind he wonders if it’s too early for Castiel to be getting a fever from infection.

            The perpetrator walks slowly, steadily into the room, smoking gun held aloft.

            She is beautiful, in a sinister way. Long locks of curly dark hair, thinly raised eyebrows, large black eyes, pouty red lips. Behind him, Dean hears Castiel breathe in wheezily.

            “ _Meg._ ”

            Wait – _what?_ “Meg?” Dean sputters. “ _The_ Meg? Your Meg?”

            Meg chuckles. It’s a sweet sound, but the kind of sweet that would make you sick. “ _His_ Meg? What kind of stories have you been spreading about me, Castiel?” She worries a strand of her hair, looping and unlooping it around her fingers. “I’m not anyone’s pet, pet.”

            Castiel looks like he’s trying to decide between murder and unconsciousness, and Dean put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “You were – _you were supposed to be dead._ ”

            “And I’m not.” Meg shrugs nonchalantly, kicking at Ellsworth’s body with quirked lips. “Buck up, sunshine. I’m not the first to come back live and kicking.”

            Dean feels a violent blossom of hatred deep in his chest for this woman. In his head, he screams every name in the book at her. Externally, he slides his hand down to Castiel’s wrist and tries to draw the tension from the other man. “Fuckin’ shame, that,” he dares to hiss. “All things considered, everyone here was better off with you dead.”

            Meg smiles at this, the kind of smile a wolf might give a rabbit before gnawing its head off. “Oh, this one’s feisty. Where’s your tongue, Castiel? From what I remember, you were quite a stallion back in the day.” She winks lasciviously, making Castiel give a stiff jerk and an ugly monster rear its head inside of Dean.

            “So, M, huh? That’s cute,” Dean sneers. “Where’d you pick that up, _Clichéd Villain Names Magazine_?”

            Meg’s smile glitters at him, and her eyebrows narrow. “Funny. You always such a wiseass? Seems like we’re going to have to _fix_ that filthy tongue.”

            “Don’t touch him.” They are the first words that Castiel’s spoken since Meg first walked in, and they are grated and rocky.

            Meg angles her head to one side, and the movement is so achingly _Cas_ that Dean’s stomach twists. “Don’t try to threaten me, Castiel, it’s not gonna be pretty.” She taps one finger on her chin. “So you can shove that sorry martyred crap right up your perky little ass.”

            Castiel sits up, the twist of his body making him exhale sharply against the pain. “You’re a monster,” he snarls.

            “No, sweetheart, I’m an appraiser. Just like you. I observe. I watch, I see everything you do and more. That’s what people like us are here for, after all.” Meg smiles, and it doesn’t even come close to touching her eyes.

            “You don’t observe,” Dean retorts. “You _murder_ innocent people.”

            Meg crouches next to them, her smile growing wider. “Let me give you a little fact of life that you might want to hold near and dear to your heart. No one’s innocent, Dean-o. The world’s poisoned, and I’m just… weeding the garden.” She shrugs, and runs her free hand across Dean’s jaw. Dean flinches away from her, hating himself for it the second she laughs at him.

            “You’re making other people do your dirty work for you,” Dean says.

            A laugh bubbles past Meg’s lips. “I’d rather get my gold-soled stilettos dirty than my hands, true, but if you think that means I haven’t scrubbed some red from my fingers then I have some news for you.” She fixes him with a cold stare. “Ellsworth’s leaving a nasty little stain in your carpet right now. Care to join him?”

            “Meg,” Castiel says, breathing hard. “Your fight isn’t with Dean.”

            “One for his friend,” Meg reminds him. She surveys them both. “Them’s the rules, angel.”

            “You take me.”

            Dean glances sharply at Castiel. “Like hell.”

            “Quiet, Dean-o, the adults are speaking.” Meg places her hand on Castiel’s leg, too high for comfort. Dean kind of wants to shoot her.

            Castiel’s eyes are clouding with pain, but he grits his teeth and speaks. “Do what you want with me. But leave Dean out of it.”

            Meg watches him for a long moment, her eyes flashing. She looks from Castiel to Dean and back again, pursing her lips. When she speaks, she sounds saddened. “I had such high hopes for you, Castiel. I had heard of the great, the one and only, the born-again king. And I thought, finally. Someone who knows how to have a little fun.”

            Stretching out her hand, she cards her slender fingers through Castiel’s hair. His expression is stone. “Life is so _dull_ when you have no one to play with. When you can look at a man and know his secrets, without any effort, when there’s no _intrigue_ or _mystery_. You knew what it was like, Castiel. That part of you hasn’t changed; even now, you’re struggling to figure me out. You and I, we’re very similar.”

            “You and I are not the same,” Castiel growls. Dean is not sure whom he is trying to convince: Meg or himself.

            “No,” Meg agrees, pitching her voice low. “I’m better.”

            Castiel sluggishly pulls himself away from Meg’s hand, narrowing his eyes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

            “You were a study, Castiel. I put myself in your life the best I could – with a romance. You snapped it right up. It was child’s play. There was nothing special about you after all, and how eager you were to prove it to me. So I finished up the work I was there to do, packed up my things, and left. And you _grieved._ I almost laughed when I found out. The genius Castiel Novak, disappearing into a syringe. How… barbaric.” Meg waves a hand. “And now here you are, doing it all over again. Bartering your life for someone else. I wish I could say I’m disappointed, but I’m so far past that point.”

            “Why are you _here_ , Meg?” Castiel asks. “If I’m so beneath you, then why bother coming to New York at all?”

            Meg shakes her head, a smile creeping onto her lips. “I’d heard of your miraculous recovery, and came to see how you were doing.”

            “Don’t do that,” Castiel snaps back. The exhaustion that had seeped into his voice in his previous questions had been leeched away, replaced by anger. “Don’t pretend like you care. Don’t pretend like you ever cared. I’m not _your_ pet.” He spits her own words back at her like the taste of them has burned his tongue.

            “Cheeky,” Meg grins. “There you are.”

            Castiel snorts. “You may believe me to be inferior, but we both know I’m not stupid. No, if you’ve revealed yourself to me now after ten years, it’s because I’m close to uncovering yet another one of your plots.”

            The smile drops from Meg’s face. She stares at him for a few long seconds, her dark eyes glittering. She peers down her nose at the both of them. “Listen, Castiel. As a gesture of good will, I’m not going to kill you. Or your friend here.”

            “How generous,” Dean mutters, and Meg fixes him with a plastic leer that thoroughly chills him.

            “You better believe it. But I can hurt you. Hurt you so exquisitely that you won’t know what to do with yourself. I’ve been at this for a long time, but there are recesses of _creativity_ I haven’t even begun to tap yet. So, for your own good… surrender the game.” Meg leans in close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Let me win.”

            She straightens and walks out without another word.


	12. Chapter 12

            Dean stitches Castiel up there, on the ratty couch in the living room, with a fire crackling to stave off the cold that has inched into their veins.

            The silence is like that which comes after an explosion, all ringing with something no one ever wanted to hear and no one can ever reverse. It whispers its reverberation to the point where Castiel wants to bash his own head in just so it’ll stop. He wants to take the fire and burn down the house, burn himself, burn the stench of what has just happened from his life.

            He wants anything but what is being handed to him like a sick prize.

            _Somewhere, Father’s laughing,_ he thinks. _Somewhere, God stands smugly._

The sharp pain of a needle threading through his skin is somehow the only thing that grounds him. Dean is skilled, he knows, but he is working slowly. The bullet is on the floor by Castiel, extracted half an hour before, and he picks it up now. Rolls it around in his fingers. No rifling. It had stuck in the muscle of his shoulder and stayed there, as stubborn as the man it had pierced.

            Castiel could laugh. The wound is smack in the middle of his wing tattoo, and if that isn’t just some symbolism straight out of Joyce or Dante. _You fell, Castiel._ His one wing, already losing feathers and burning right up, has a hole right through its pinions.

            He will never fly again.

ℵ

            “You got lucky.”

            “I have a hole in my shoulder.”

            “Yeah, but it’s not deep and it missed everything important. The idiot brought a low-impact gun with short-range ammo. Probably used it for his fuckin’ mafia executions – you know, how they get all up close and personal? – or something. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

            “Okay.”

            “You’re gonna be fine. Okay, Cas?”

ℵ

            “Cas? You still with me?”

ℵ

            “I think I’m going crazy,” Castiel whispers to the fire, after a good long stretch of quiet. Dean glances over at him, from his place on the floor where he’s packing away his tools. The stitches are as neat as Dean could make them, but he doesn’t doubt there’ll be a scar. He doesn’t know who to thank that the bullet barely caused anything more than superficial damage.

            A man had stopped by and taken Ellsworth’s body from the house silently. They hadn’t known who he was, and hadn’t asked questions. Dean’s tongue had felt anesthetized, heavy and languid in his mouth.

His gaze settles on Castiel. The reflection of the flames dances in Castiel’s eyes, making them look half-wild with the things that must be bouncing around in his head.

            Something in Dean aches, swallows him completely, and he longs for a bottle of Jack Daniels to sing him into a stupor. He pushes the craving away, choosing instead to take a seat on the couch and bring his hand as close to Castiel as the other man will allow.

            “You’re not going crazy,” Dean murmurs, hardly daring to raise his voice. There is a muscle, right at the joint of his knee, that is ticking almost in time with his heartbeat. He focuses on it. “It’s not your fault she’s a total whackjob. Even the best of us get fucked over sometimes.”

            Castiel closes his eyes, furious misery written on the lines of his mouth and the set of his jaw. “You know, it’s funny. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better at all.”

            Dean shrugs. “It’s not supposed to make you feel better. It’s supposed to make you see the truth of what’s going on. Nothing’s gonna make you feel better but yourself. You just can’t blame yourself for the shit that happened. You’re human, Cas. This is human shit, and it sucks, but you can’t let it get to you.”

            “You did.”

            The words are quiet, but Dean feels them like a bullet to the chest. The hurt that explodes in him is enough to render him speechless.

            Castiel makes a small noise into his hands. “I didn’t mean that,” he tries.

            “No,” Dean says, surprising even himself with the ferocity of the statement. “You’re right. Don’t you get it? You’re right. I made a mistake, letting myself do the surgery. People got hurt. And instead of dealin’ with it properly like I should’ve, I went and drowned myself in every goddamn inch of alcohol I could get my hands on.”

            He shifts closer to Castiel, abandoning all pretenses and pulling Castiel’s hands from his face. “You think that was healthy? It took me a long time to get away from that shit. And that’s why I’m here, man. I’m here to help you, so you don’t get yourself in the same mess I did. Not as your sober companion, not as your fucking helper monkey, but as your friend.” Castiel’s eyes find Dean’s at last, sliding toward him sharply at the word _friend._ “So you made a mistake. So what? Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off, get back in the saddle, all that stupid shit they say in the movies. We need you here. I need you _here_.”

            Castiel’s eyes can’t be watering, they can’t be. His fingers curl up from his lap and grip Dean’s sleeve tightly, and out of nowhere, he practically leaps forward and covers Dean’s mouth with his own.

            Dean’s head fills with white noise. He lets out a muffled sound against Castiel’s lips. _They’re soft,_ is his first comprehensible thought, followed by, _What the fuck._ And then again, _What the_ fuck _?_

He tries to will his body to move away, but it has become unresponsive. Time turns to syrup around him, drowning him, pulling at him. Everything is moving too slowly. He thinks, absurdly, that he could count Castiel’s eyelashes from here.

            Then he can no longer see them, and he realizes it’s because his own eyes have fluttered shut and his lips are pressing back and _oh my God what the fuck is happening._ Castiel’s lips are pleasantly cool against Dean’s burning skin, though it is only when Castiel begins to mouth at Dean’s jaw that something finally snaps and Dean is able to jerk back.

            “This isn’t – it’s not right,” Dean gasps. “You’re hurt, you don’t know what you’re doing – ”

            “Like hell I don’t,” Castiel virtually _growls_ , still clinging to Dean’s shirt, and fuck if that sound doesn’t shoot straight to the base of Dean’s stomach. “Don’t make me beg, Winchester.” And _God,_ that does it.

            Dean grapples for Castiel’s collar, dragging him into a heated, open-mouthed kiss. Castiel’s hand comes up to the back of Dean’s neck, where his thumb begins to rub gentle circles into the skin, and it’s such a contrast to the way his teeth are nipping at Dean’s lip that Dean lets out a breathy laugh.

            “What are we doing, Novak?” he huffs as Castiel plants kisses on the underside of his jaw.

            “Hopefully something that involves less questions,” Castiel answers snidely. Dean feels the vibration from his voice right down to the tips of his toes.

            Then Castiel’s hands are under Dean’s shirt, and yeah, questions are pretty much the last thing on Dean’s mind.

ℵ

            Castiel’s imagination could never compare to the feeling of Dean’s lips, skimming over his face, finding purchase behind his ear, on his neck, on his own lips. Castiel’s hand settles on the side of Dean’s face, pulling them gently apart long enough to gasp, “We should get to the bed.”

            Dean nods, his face flushed. His arms reach down to hug Castiel’s waist to his and lift them both off the couch entirely. Castiel holds onto him just as tightly, as if every inch of space that could come between them is a frightening and painful concept. They stumble backwards, locked together. God, Castiel doesn’t think he could ever get enough of Dean’s kisses.

            They stop at the foot of the stairs. As much as Castiel would love to kiss Dean all the way up the steps, he thinks a broken ankle or misplaced collarbone might ruin the mood. As it happens, Dean breaks the kiss with a concerned, “You just got shot, man. You sure you’re okay?”

            Castiel leans his forehead against Dean’s. “Do you really want me to answer ‘no’ to that?”

            “I want to make sure I’m not gonna hurt you.” Dean says, looking seriously at Castiel.

            Castiel hears the layers under those words, and wonders how one sentence could manage to be so multi-faceted. He hears the unspoken, _Like she did_.

            He closes his eyes. Concentrates on the sound of Dean’s breathing, on the warmth which is slowly unfurling at the center of his chest. It is timid, it is fragile, but it’s there. “Well, Doctor?” he asks. “Do you believe you’ll hurt me?”

            Dean is quiet. He lifts a hand to rest his thumb on Castiel’s cheekbone, caressing the skin there, and it’s only when the moisture’s gone that Castiel realizes he was crying. Dean kisses him once, tenderly, and holds it until Castiel thinks his lungs will burst from something that isn’t quite a lack of air. “Not on my life.”

            Castiel grabs for the hand on his cheek, turning and pulling him upstairs, around the corner, into his bedroom. His knees hit the edge of the bed. He lets his body fall and pulls Dean with him, wincing at the pressure of the blanket on his injury. He ignores the pain.

            The movement with which he helps Dean pull off his shirt is familiar – as if they’d been doing this for years. He hopes Dean can feel it too, even though his hands hesitate above Castiel.

            “What are you waiting for?” Castiel asks, tugging impatiently at Dean’s hands.

            Dean smiles at that, and Castiel can feel a breath of laughter against his lips. The moment softens the blow of the clinical. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cas.”

            The shirt comes off completely and there it is, the electric touch of skin on skin. Dean’s hands move from Castiel’s face and land softly on his hips before pulling Castiel’s waistband down to his thighs.

            Dean pauses. Castiel can feel him shaking. He hides it well enough that it almost goes unnoticed, but Castiel catches it. He spreads his fingers across the sides of Dean’s neck. “The bedside table. Second drawer down,” he murmurs. Dean nods.

            He goes to the side of the bed, opening the drawer. Meanwhile, Castiel bucks his hips up and pushes his pants and underwear all the way off. It leaves him feeling a little exposed, with Dean still half-dressed, though he’d never been one for modesty in the first place.

            Dean turns back around and freezes at the sight of Castiel naked. He makes this barely audible sighing sound and leans forward to kiss Castiel. He leaves kisses down his chest, his stomach, and finally, he takes Castiel’s cock into his mouth.

            Castiel’s hips jerk at the sensation. His mouth falls open and his hand drifts down to rest in Dean’s hair. Dean’s mouth is perfect, but every attempt at telling him just how perfect it is crumbles to a whimper.

            Unable to keep holding himself up, Castiel drops back onto the pillow and lets his eyes shut. The room is filled with a steady beat of inhales, exhales, and the wet sound Dean’s mouth makes when he comes up for air. It takes a few seconds for Castiel to realize that the contact is gone.

            “Dean, please don’t – ”

            “Gimme a second,” Dean interrupts quietly, and Castiel frowns, because there’s no way Dean understands just how imperative it is to bring his mouth back over here.

            There is the sound of a cap popping, and Castiel abruptly remembers why he went over to the bedside table in the first place. Instinctively, he spreads his legs a little wider. He feels lips pressed against his knee, leaving soft kisses there. Suddenly the sensation is coupled with a finger pushing gently inside of him. He gasps at the cold.

            “That okay?” Dean asks, a hint of worry in his voice, and Castiel can only nod. Dean kisses his hipbone and slowly presses in another finger alongside the first. Castiel doesn’t have time to feel vulnerable or nervous about what they’re going to do. He doesn’t have time have time to feel much of anything but Dean’s fingers, and his mouth, which is leaving little love marks on his stomach. It had been months since anyone had touched him like that, since before he’d been admitted to the rehabilitation facility, and years since it had felt so significant. He can’t remember the last time he cared about the person he was fucking, and as scary as it is to admit that – how much he cares about Dean – it comes with the knowledge that maybe Dean cares about him too.

            “Hurry up,” Castiel breathes, his voice coming back to him. He doesn’t want to wait any longer for something that should’ve happened weeks ago. He doesn’t want to wait for one of them to change their mind and realize that this shouldn’t be happening at all.

            He feels Dean pull his fingers out and hears the crinkling sound of foil. He opens his eyes, noticing that somewhere in the midst of things Dean had removed his own pants, exposing his own cock, which stands at attention against his stomach. Dean’s fingers fumble a little as he tries to roll a condom down it.

            “Here, let me.” Castiel leans forward, slowly to avoid exacerbating his wound. He pinches the tip of the condom and rolls the rest down with the hand, just as he’d been taught at the mandatory sexual education course back at the boarding school.

            “Thanks,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel realizes that he’s blushing. It makes his freckles stand out and _fuck_ , Castiel can’t help leaning in and kissing that look right off his face. He brings his good arm up around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him back, laying them both down. They pull away from the kiss to breathe, and Dean’s right back to looking worried.

            “Cas, listen, we – we don’t have to do this, it’s – ”

            Castiel lets out a huff of laughter, reaching up to cup one side of Dean’s face. “Dean, I understand that you’re trying to be a gentleman,” He lifts his head and presses a kiss to his cheek, “but please,” another to the corner of his mouth, “stop talking.”

            Dean hesitates only a second longer before biting his lip and nodding. Castiel grips Dean tighter as he slowly begins to push inside, gently and cautiously. Castiel winces at first, but Dean keeps going until he is mostly all of the way inside, stilling then as they catch their breath.

            _Surreal,_ is the one word Castiel can conjure up to describe all of this. Everything that’s been happening. _This is surreal._

Dean starts to move, just a slow drag of his hips, before he pushes back in.

            “Fuck, Cas – ” His voice is rough. Castiel wants to find out how it feels when Dean whispers against his skin.

            “I know,” Castiel answers, because he does.

            He rocks his hips in time with Dean’s thrusts, tidal movements going back to meet him. They’re going slower than Castiel imagined they would, though his shoulder thanks them for it. His fingers dig into Dean’s back. Part of him hopes that his nails will leave marks – some evidence that this isn’t all in his head. Dean rolls his hips, harder this time, and Castiel gasps in surprise.

            “Do that again.”

            Castiel feels himself be lifted up by the waist and Dean _does_ do it again, making Castiel’s back arch up off the bed a little as each thrust rocks his body. He knows that the sounds he’s making sound desperate. Maybe he is desperate. Maybe that’s what happens when you wait too long for something you want, whether you know you wanted it or not.

            It’s not too long before Castiel hears Dean’s breath start to sound different. A sharp inhale here, a shuddering exhale there. Castiel knows he’s close, too. Neither of them had been aiming to last, even from the start. Without being asked, Dean reaches down between them and begins to fist Castiel’s cock, twisting his hand on the upstroke and moving in time with his thrusts.

            Dean leans down, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s, and gives him a series of small kisses. None of them last long, ending quickly to make way for gasps of breath. It’s the fourth kiss that does it, Castiel thinks. It’s Dean’s soft lips against his own that finally push him over the edge, until every part of him is quivering, and he falls apart in Dean’s arms.

            Dean keeps kissing him during, and after. Castiel loses track of how many there are, or which one it is that makes Dean finally still, then shake, then moan.

            Castiel waits until Dean pulls out to open his eyes, watches him tie off the condom and throw it in a trash bin by the bed. Dean turns to him then.

            It’s very obvious that neither of them really know what to say. Dean stands rather abruptly.

            “Well, that was – ”

            “Stay,” Castiel interjects. “Please.”

            Dean looks at him oddly. “Cas, I told you I’m staying.”

            “I meant,” Castiel says hesitantly, “here. The bed.”

            “Oh.” Dean wavers on his feet. “Yeah, okay.”

            So he pulls on his underwear and tosses Castiel his own pair before going to the bathroom and dampening a hand towel to wipe themselves down. He then slips back into the bed, and Castiel pretends he doesn’t see the broad smile on Dean’s face as they tuck their bodies towards each other and give in to slumber.

ℵ

            The itching under Dean’s skin fades. The tremor under Castiel’s stills.

ℵ

            Dean wakes feeling calmer than he ever remembers. He stirs quietly, breathing in deeply through his nose and opening his eyes.

            He almost has a goddamn heart attack.

            Castiel is sprawled out by his side. The sunlight streaming through the window has turned the tips of his hair golden, and under his lids, his eyes flutter gently with sleep. Dean’s heart races in surprise until the entirety of the previous night comes rushing back, and then his heart races even faster.

            Hardly daring to breathe, Dean slides out of bed, shivering at the chill that lands on his bare skin. He picks up his jeans from where they lay discarded on the floor and steps into them and crosses over the adjoined bathroom.

            He doesn’t look any different when he looks in the mirror. He doesn’t know why he expected himself to. Pivotal moments and all that.

            For the first time, he doesn’t really care about the sex. It is the memory of Castiel’s hand in his, of the look in his eyes after their first kiss, that sets Dean’s blood pumping and his skin ablaze.

            He presses his face against the cold bathroom wall, and stays like that until he hears movement from the bed. When he turns to exit the bathroom, Castiel’s eyes are already open.

            “Hey,” he says softly, and there’s a black pit in his stomach now. He doesn’t know what Castiel is thinking. He’d been hurt in every definition of the word yesterday. What if he regrets it? What if now, coming to his senses, he hates Dean for letting it happen?

            “Hello,” Castiel murmurs sleepily back, and then his lips curl into a smile and his face turns a little pink and Dean turns his smack of relief into a quiet cough.

            Dean walks back over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and reaching around Castiel. “Let me check your bandages.”

            “They’re fine, Dean.”

            “Just turn around.”

            They’re tiptoeing around each other, Dean knows. Treating each other too carefully, treading too lightly. It makes Dean even more nervous, but he doesn’t know how else to act. All the walls are down. They razed them in their sleep, and it’s too late to put them back up. He doesn’t know if he has the strength.

            The bandages have bled through slightly. Dean honestly expected worse. He retrieves a roll of clean gauze and cuts it into a thick square.

            “It doesn’t look infected, so there’s that,” Dean says.

            Castiel winces as Dean tapes the new bandage onto his back. “Is there any chance that you could give me pain medication?”

            “I can try to find you some that aren’t habit-forming,” Dean promises. “Won’t make any pinky swears, though.”

            Castiel looks at him, and he feels his face warm. It’s too easy to remember how those eyes had looked the night before, all dark and heated and full. Dean shuffles his legs and coughs into the back of his hand. “We ever gonna talk about what made you pull a – well, me – that night?”

            “Dean,” Castiel sighs, and kisses him.

            Dean blinks like a hundred times.

            Castiel immediately looks contrite. “I’m – was that okay?”

            “No – uh, I mean, yeah.” Dean’s voice cracks. _Ah, shit,_ he thinks. _Ah, shit, goddamn fucking shit._

_Mr. Dean “Suave” Winchester, that’s my name._

Castiel’s lips thin, and he pulls away from Dean. The distance between them seems to Dean a treacherous pit. “I understand.”

            But the way he says it is all wrong. Dean wants to shout at him, tell him, _no, I’m just scared I’m gonna fuck this up again, I’m scared of how much you mean to me and how much I might mean to you and it’s sink or swim, man, and I’ve never even been half-decent at doggy paddling, and I wore water wings ‘til I was fuckin’ ten years old, and –_

But Mr. Dean “Suave” Winchester has never been a “use your words” kinda guy. So he grabs the sides of Castiel’s face and crosses the treacherous pit and plants a hearty one on Castiel’s lips.

            Dean kisses him until they’re both a little blue in the face, and it’s close-lipped and chaste but Dean pours his heart into it, and all that other sappy Nicholas Sparks novel stuff.

            “Just, you know,” Dean says when they pull apart, pink-cheeked, “in case there was a _mis_ understanding.”

            “Oh,” Castiel answers, vaguely flustered. “Oh, alright.”

ℵ

            Castiel doesn’t regret anything. Well, in the last twenty-four hours. Well, being beaten and shot was kind of inconvenient. And so was finding out that your ex-whatever is very much not dead and had the _very_ malicious intention of causing you suffering for two years. Yeah, that stung a little.

            So maybe he should shorten the deal to the last twelve hours.

            He doesn’t regret kissing Dean. And he definitely doesn’t regret anything that came after.

            But now it’s the dreaded morning after, and his shoulder is hurting pretty badly, and he’s sore in unnamable places, and there’s a twitch in his eye that keeps pulsing like a rabbit’s heartbeat.

            And he’s also completely unsure of how to act around Dean. There’s that, too.

            They lounge around in bed for a few hours, barely touching but talking enough to fill that void – talking a whole lot of everything and a little bit of nothing. Castiel tells Dean about the home he’s made Sam up in the greenhouse. Dean quietly confides that Charlie’s apartment might have movie posters and superhero-themed cereals, but the brownstone’s got their own brand of weird, messy shit stamped right on it, and he “wouldn’t even trade it for Robert Plant’s harmonica, you got that, Cas?”

            Castiel smiles at that, though he’s not really sure who Robert Plant is or why his harmonica would be important. He doesn’t voice his ignorance. He has a feeling Dean would just get up and leave.

            Once, he tries to hold Dean’s hand, but feels him shiver at his touch and pulls back. He doesn’t mind. This – whatever _this_ is – is new, and Dean becomes defensive in the face of change.

            It’s okay. Castiel can wait.

            They both silently agree not to mention Meg. Castiel is afraid to touch on that himself. That is not for this time. This time is for them.

            Except, of course, until it’s not.

ℵ

            A knocking at the door throws an anvil to the bubble of peace they’d tried to build.

            “You know what we should invest in?” Dean grumbles as he swings out of bed. “A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”

            “Typically, people hang a sock on the doorknob for that.”

            “You’re a monster, Castiel Novak.”

            “I learned from the very best, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean flips him the bird and grabs a shirt, pulling it over his head as he makes his way down the stairs.

            He wants to slam the door shut again as soon as he opens it.

            “Dean.”

            Of all the assholes that have ever turned up on their doorstep, this one by far takes home the prize of Biggest Fucking Douche. Yes, that includes the emotionally abusive son-of-a-Brit brother, the TyphoCorpse, and the not-really-dead-but- _really_ -murderous control freak.

            Because the universe can’t give Dean a single day off, sound the bells, it’s John fucking Winchester.

            He stands there solemnly, peering at Dean.

            That look drives Dean up the fucking wall.

            “Dad?” Dean asks, and damn it, there it is, he’s drawing himself up straight-backed and even-shouldered to match his father’s military-learned stance. “What are you doing here?”

            “What, can’t a man visit his own son anymore?”

            Dean plasters a tight smile on his face. _Yeah, not since you called him a murderer._ “Uh, yeah, come in.”

            He steps aside and John walks past him, into their home, and it somehow feels like the sickest kind of violation. “How did you even know I was here?”

            “Yeah, I stopped by your old place and your landlord gave me the address. Good guy, that Rufus.”

            “He’s a crotchety old bastard,” Dean murmurs.

            They stand there, staring at each other, for what could be decades. Finally, John clears his throat. “What do I got to do to get you to pick up the damn phone, huh?”

            “You’ve been calling?” Dean’s face is the picture of inquisitive innocence. “Network must be going to shit, I’ve been dropping calls left and right.”

            “Yeah, must be,” John says. He turns his face away, his eyes falling on the stained couch, on the dust collecting at every corner. “You’re letting this place fall apart, kid.”

            Dean feels shame, then a burning anger at his own shame. “The house is fine, Dad.”

            “Would expect these rich guys who hire you to have enough to wipe their asses. How’s the plumbing?”

            Dean closes his eyes. “The plumbing’s fine, too.”

            “Surprising. Seems like you’d get dirtier showering here than you would going outside. ‘Course, if you were still workin’ at the hospital, you could live decent.”

            Dean actually laughs outright at that. There’s a bitter sort of acidity rising in the back of his throat. “Like you’d want me back at the hospital, after what happened.”

            Before John can answer, there’s a noise from upstairs and Castiel appears at the top of the steps. He’s donned the appropriate amount of clothes – _maybe there is a God –_ down to a shirt and everything.

            “Hello,” he says when he reaches Dean and John, extending a hand in John’s direction. “I’m Castiel Novak.”

            John sniffs a little, scrutinizing Castiel closely.  “Yeah?”

            Castiel hesitates, as if unsure whether or not John is joking. His hand still hangs awkwardly in midair. “Um, yes, that’s me.”

            Dean kind of wants to cry. “Cas, this is John Winchester. My dad.”

            “Nice to meet you,” Castiel says. His hand slowly drifts back to his side. He then looks at Dean and smiles a little uncertainly.

            A harmless gesture in itself. But Dean can see, the moment John’s eyes narrow, that something’s wrong. Because the one thing John has never been bad at assessing is threat level, and right now his radar’s going off. Dean sees him focus on the little distance that Dean and Castiel have put between them, on Castiel’s shirt, which Dean belatedly and with not a small amount of panic realizes is his own AC/DC shirt from almost a decade ago.

            John doesn’t make a sound. He goes quickly to the stairs and climbs them, with Dean and Castiel following in alarm.

            “Dad, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dean calls angrily, but John doesn’t listen. Instead, he opens the door to Dean’s room, where the bed is made, cold, and clearly untouched. And then he opens the door to Castiel’s room, where the marked imprints of two bodies, curled together like parentheses, lay.        

            Dean’s stomach goes into freefall.

            He puts Castiel behind him before John turns around. When he does and sees them, his face goes white. “What the hell’s this?” he asks, dangerously quiet.

            “None of your goddamn business, Dad,” Dean snaps. Castiel puts a hand on his back and steps around him. “Cas – ”

            “You think you got somethin’ to say to me?” John snarls at Castiel.

            Castiel lifts his brow. “I know I do. Dean has done nothing to deserve this. Let me be clear. He has done _nothing_ , not in his _life,_ to deserve this treatment.” He fixes John with a pointed stare, and Dean doesn’t know how, but he knows Castiel’s figured out exactly how much John blames Dean for Sam’s death. “I would also like to point out that you are standing in my house right now. Actually, for as long as he would like to stay, it is also Dean’s house. I think it might be more concise to say it’s _our_ house. And you are very clearly unwelcome. So I suggest you take your leave before I call our very good friends at the police department to remove you themselves.”

            John’s face goes from white to purple in three seconds flat. “You got some fuckin’ nerve, talkin’ to me like that,” he hisses. “You think I’m gonna let you _corrupt_ Dean with whatever the fuck you think he – _feels_ – ”

            Dean speaks up then, emboldened by Castiel’s support. “Hey, Dad, mind if I tell you a couple stories?” he says. “Sophomore year of high school I traded blowjobs with Nick Pierowski. Junior year I kissed Peter Gieroni on a dare, and then again in the back of his car, and then the morning after we fucked in his sister’s room. Freshman year of college, the year I told you I didn’t want to see anyone because I wanted to focus on school? Dated my dormmate James Visch for seven months. He was so fucking loud in bed that our counselor told him he needed to talk to someone about his night terrors because our neighbors would complain.”

            He breathes heavily, full of a righteous fury that brings a manic grin to his face. Castiel grips his hand, and he thinks he nearly crushes it. “This ain’t a new thing, you fucking asshole, this has been going on half my life. Just because you refuse to open your goddamn eyes and see that this is a thing that fucking _happens_ , don’t mean it doesn’t. You think _Cas_ corrupted me? Take a good look at yourself, old man! You drank yourself so down the drain you couldn’t even tell your own piss from a glass of Johnnie Walker.”

            John looks about ready to choke on his own saliva. “You – you fuckin’ – _Sam –_ ”

            “Oh, Sam knew, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Dean spits vindictively. “Sammy found out way back with Peter Gieroni. What, you think he’d be ashamed? You think he’d be disgusted? You don’t know either of your goddamn sons. He _accepted_ it, like you should’ve, like it’s your fucking _responsibility_ to! I’m not your fucking _project_ – ” He shoves John once, “ – I’m not your fucking _lapdog_ – ” twice, “ – and I’m not _you._ ” Three times.

            “I will not,” John seethes, spittle flying from his mouth, grabbing onto Dean’s collar, “have a fucking _faggot_ for a son.”

            In revulsion, Dean yanks himself away from John. “Well, that works out great,” he says, “because I’m not having _you_ for a father.”

            “Your brother – ”

            “What?” Dean explodes, furiously flushing red. “You gonna call me a murderer again? You gonna tell me I killed my little brother?”

            “It’s your fault he was on that fuckin’ table in the first – ”

            “No!” Dean tries hard to breathe through the tightening of his chest, see past the red spots popping up all over his vision. “No, it fucking isn’t. I’ve got two words for you: _infective endocarditis._ He’d’ve died if I hadn’t gotten him on the table anyway! You wanna look at numbers? Sam knew what he was getting himself into, he knew the risks. And I – I did the best I could. But sometimes people die _,_ and sometimes you can’t do a fucking thing about it. You can’t wish ‘em back, and you can’t keep spinning circles around the same damn thing. Sam’s _gone_ , Dad.” Dean’s voice breaks. “He’s _gone_ and it hurts, it hurts every fucking day and I messed up, I made a mistake but what happened to him would’ve happened whether it was me or any other surgeon and I’m not a fucking murderer. I’m not… I’m not.”

            The silence is thick enough to drown in. Castiel steps forward to stand at Dean’s shoulder, reaching out to clasp Dean’s hand once more. He squeezes it once and smoothly says, “I don’t like repeating myself. So I’ll try to put it in a way you might understand: get the _fuck_ out.”

            John doesn’t want to back down and Dean knows it. But he glares at Dean, and then he glares at Castiel, and he knows he can’t take them both. So he pushes past them and stumbles his way down the stairs. Dean and Castiel don’t move until they hear the door close firmly.

            Then they sag against each other, and Dean hides his tears in Castiel’s shoulder.

ℵ

            Being in the brownstone right now is stifling.

            “Cas,” Dean says, before the red has completely faded from his eyes. “Uh, I think I’m just gonna take a walk or something. Clear my head.”

            Castiel takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Of course. Do you want me to order dinner?”

            “Yeah,” Dean answers, a grateful smile on his face. “Does the Roadhouse do takeout?”

            Castiel leans in, putting their foreheads together before pressing his lips to Dean’s. “I’ll pick up your favorite.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Dean murmurs, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hand once before letting go. “Thanks, Cas.” He’s thanking him for a lot more than a silly burger, and Castiel knows it. He smiles softly at Dean.

            Dean leaves the brownstone and begins walking, breathing in deeply as he goes. The air has dropped the sharpness of winter completely, and has acquired the gentle muted tones of spring.

            The brownstone isn’t far from Central Park. He could go there, see the blooms. But then he imagines the look Castiel’s face would have, surrounded by the beautiful flowers, and catalogues the idea. He’ll suggest it when he gets back. They could go together. Dean wonders if Castiel has ever followed the azalea walk, or stopped by the strawberry fields.

            Yeah. Those are good.

            When the first man grabs Dean by the arm, he doesn’t realize what’s happening. When the second puts a gun at his back, then he catches up quickly. Dean struggles and more men come, until there are more hands on him than he can count and someone is throwing a hood over Dean’s head.

            He shouts for Castiel, so a man yanks his head to the side and stabs something into the side of Dean’s neck and he is floating up into the sky, thinking that maybe he should take Castiel to the wisteria pergola, too. He’d like that.


	13. Chapter 13

            Castiel waits, and the food grows cold in styrofoam boxes. He heats it back up on the stove, not in the microwave, just like Dean taught him, and waits some more.

ℵ

            “You’re workin’ yourself into the ground, Jo,” Benny tells her. He’s almost finished packing up for the day, about to hand her his last file for processing.

            Jo is sitting at her desk. She has Charlie’s notebook in front of her, the one where they had written about each of M’s victims, weeks ago in the diner. “I’m trying to do my job, Benny.”

            “They caught him,” Benny reminds her gently.

            “No, you know, it doesn’t make sense. This Crowley guy had no reason to murder any one of these people. Plus, you mention Castiel and he totally fridges you out. I don’t know, something smells funny about all this.”

            Benny leans against her desk with a sigh. “The guy’s a nut, Jo, nothin’ about him’s gonna smell right. You don’t still think,” he adds, dropping his voice, “that ol’ Cas has got anything to do with it?”

            “I don’t know what to think, Benny. Like anyone could figure out what’s going on in that head.” Jo runs a hand through her hair in frustration, only just stopping herself from yanking a couple of locks out.

            Benny looks at her seriously. “Jo, you trust Dean, right?”

            “Yeah, I do.”

            “Well, he trusts Cas. So we gotta trust Cas, or give him the benefit of the doubt at least. Listen, Cas might have a couple screws loose in there or he might not. Either way, he’s got goodness in him. Anyone can fake a kind smile, but a kind heart – well, that’s mighty harder, I say.”

            Jo’s lips thin. “When have you had time to psychoanalyze him? I didn’t know you two were besties.”

            Benny smiles a little at that. “You were at their house that night, same as me, Joanna Beth. You take a close look at the way Cas looks at Dean. Creature that makes eyes like that ain’t capable of hurtin’ innocents.”

            Swallowing, Jo taps her fingers across the notebook. “And hurting the guilty?”

            Benny’s eyes flicker. “That’s somethin’ different, alright.”

ℵ

            Most of the precinct lights are off when Castiel arrives at the door. At the far end of the building, he spots Jo and Benny in conversation. He raps on the door to catch their attention.

            Jo nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees him. Benny waves him in. “What can we do you for this fine evenin’, brother?”

            “Has Dean come by here tonight?”

            “’Fraid not. What’s the trouble?”

            Castiel shifts his weight. “His father paid us a visit. It did not end well. He said he was going to take a walk, but it’s been hours.”

            Benny winces sympathetically. “He’ll turn up sooner or later, Cas. You check the cemetery?”

            “The cemetery is too far for him to walk, and his car is still – ” Castiel closes his mouth abruptly, peering at Benny. “How did you know about the cemetery?”

            “You think all we talk about is the dead on my table?” Benny asks quietly. “Nah, we talk about the ones in our lives, too.”

            Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, but his ringtone saves him from trying to rescue the situation. He answers it without checking the screen. “Dean.”

            “Guess again, angel.”

            Castiel’s blood freezes. “How did you get this number?” Benny and Jo both stare at him.

            Meg laughs, long and low and sultry. “That’s cute.”

            “What do you want from me?”

            “You got it backwards, sunshine. I have something _you_ want. And it’s got such _pretty_ green eyes.”

            Everything goes a little hazy after that. Next thing Castiel knows, he’s sitting in a chair with Jo hovering anxiously over him and Benny’s hand on his uninjured shoulder. There’s something burning under his skin and there’s a rushing noise, like a tornado or a wind turbine, stuck in his ears. “Don’t touch him,” he says, and he sounds angry but he is seconds from cracking.

            “My dogs smell fear, you know,” Meg answers, “and he stinks of it.”

            “Name your price.”

            Meg waits a second to answer, as if listening to a pin drop. “You. And every file you have on the mysterious ‘M’.”

            Castiel closes his eyes tightly, so tightly he starts seeing bright spots instead of black. “Let me talk to him.”

            Meg laughs again, but Castiel hears shuffling noises and finally Dean comes on the line, gasping, “Cas – don’t do it, fucking _Christ,_ don’t you dare – ”

            But he’s pulled away as quickly as he had been put on, and Castiel feels his lungs give out. “Convinced?” Meg asks amusedly.

            “You said you’d leave us alone,” Castiel whispers.

            “I gave you conditions, Castiel, and you haven’t followed them. Your little friends there are still looking for me. I don’t give second warnings. You have twenty-four hours to decide. Rendezvous point at TyphoCorp. You either get your handsome self down here,” she pauses, “or I send you Dean-o’s head in the mail. Your choice.”

            The line clicks off.

            Castiel drops the phone from his ear, sick to his stomach. The sound of Dean’s cries echoes in his mind.

            “What the _hell_ was that?” Jo is the first to break the silence.

            Castiel lifts his head, looking at them both with dead eyes. “There are a few things you should probably know.”

ℵ

            Dean stares at the phone long after Castiel’s voice stops ringing from it. Meg watches him gleefully, crouching down by where he sits, handcuffed. “You think the fish’ll bite?” she asks conversationally.

            “You’re a fucking monster.”

            “ _I_ think so. I’ve got some pretty delicious bait.”

            “And you’re fucking crazy.”

            “You know,” Meg says, “I never said anything about giving you back _whole._ Keep talking, see how the dogs like it.”

            Dean shuts his mouth reluctantly, glaring around at the five “dogs”. They’re men, but equipped with wicked-looking daggers and are seemingly of a hive, heil-Hitler mind. Dean doesn’t doubt that they’d do anything Meg asked of them, and like it, too.

            He leans his head back against the column he’s trapped against, scared half to death that Castiel will do exactly what Dean would do in his position.

ℵ

            “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” Jo says breathlessly once Castiel is finished speaking. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

            Castiel looks away from her. “I’m sorry we kept so much from you.”

            “ _God_ , you two messed up. Why does _no one ever tell the police what’s going on_?” Jo asks, casting a disbelieving look at Benny. “Like, this is our job. This is what we’re here for. Fucking assholes.”

            “We wanted to tell you, we just – ”

            “If you say you just didn’t want to bother us, so help me, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

            Benny raises his hands in a mediating gesture. “This is all good fun, but both of you gotta focus. We know what happened. What we gotta figure out now is what’s goin’ to happen next.”

            Castiel looks at him hopefully. “You’ll help?”

            “Dean’s been kidnapped, Cas,” Benny says. “’Course I’ll help.”

            Jo’s face turns stone-cold and serious. “Yeah, same here. But we’re gonna need more than just the three of us if we’re gonna get this over with for good.” She puts her phone to her ear. “It’s time to call in the cavalry.”

ℵ

            **Two Years Ago. London, England.**

“I’m fine where I am, Balthazar,” Castiel says stubbornly.

            Balthazar scoffs and shakes his head, watching Castiel over a glass of single-malt whiskey. “What, picking up trash for the locals?”

            Castiel sighs. “I’m helping take murderers off the streets. I think that deserves a better comparison than that one.”

            “It’s accurate,” Balthazar argues. “I mean, look at yourself, Castiel. Other people are the ones getting themselves killed. Why should you take it upon yourself to wipe up their messes?”

            “And where do you believe I should be?” Castiel asks scathingly. He already knows what the answer is, has known it since the day he turned eighteen and received a single telephone call from a man that was less than a stranger to him. “Working at the company? You’re the older brother, Balthazar. You are the one who stands to inherit Angelus.”

            “I’m offering to find you a niche here.”

            “I’ve already found my niche.”

            “Castiel,” Balthazar pleads, leaning forward. He’s poised and coiffed on a velvet-backed chair while Castiel stands in front of him. Balthazar’s office has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Hyde Park, and Castiel focuses his gaze there now. “When I own the company – ”

            “You already practically own the company,” Castiel interrupts. “Father is a ghost to these walls.”

            “He does what he can, when he can.”

            “He doesn’t leave his _palace_ except to tell the media how proud he is of everything the company has achieved while he does nothing for it. As if smiling for the camera would part the sea.”

            Balthazar stares at Castiel disapprovingly. “Father doesn’t think himself any Moses.”

            “Father thinks himself every savior in the Bible,” Castiel retorts. “Or have you forgotten his _lessons_?”

            Balthazar sets his glass down on the coffee table with a sharp clink. He stands then, his face drawn and dark. “I’m not excusing how he treated you, Castiel.”

            “No? I was four years old the day I was called to the headmaster to explain my bruises and you told him I had been accidentally injured when we had wrestled the day before. _Like brothers do_ , you said. Do you know what else brothers do, Balthazar? They _defend_ each other.”

            Castiel’s voice is shaking, but his eyes are dry. He learned long ago how tears only serve to expose your weaknesses.  

            “I can’t beg forgiveness for things that happened two decades ago, Castiel. But Father’s different now, and I’m different now, too. He wants you in the company. A family again.”

            “We can’t be a family again when we never were one to begin with,” Castiel says bitterly. “From the day I was born, he’s been blaming me. Mother’s death – ”

            “He loved Mother. Of course he didn’t want her dead.”

            Castiel puts a hand to the windows. “He changed his love for her into hate for me.” He turns around, staring at Balthazar. “Why can’t you understand? I’m helping people. I’m doing something that makes me happy. I’m with someone. I don’t need this company, not like you and Father do. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I want nothing to do with this place.”

            Balthazar’s eyes glitter. “Fine. Do what you want. Gallivant off to catch thieves and killers. But do us a favor, Castiel – don’t forget me.”

            Castiel dips his head and exits Balthazar’s office. He takes the elevator down, mercifully alone, staring at his own metallic reflection on the elevator wall.

            The summer breeze bats at his hair as it passes. He walks – the distance is short, but still long enough for him to think. Sometimes it feels like his head is going to burst, there’s so much thinking to do.

            His work at Scotland Yard is fulfilling. It’s not the investigating so much as the conclusion, really – when the case is in the closing steps and the family or the friends are given closure. Castiel doesn’t do it for the attention, which is why he tries to stay as far away from the public aspect of it as possible, but he approaches them anonymously and tells them how wonderful it is that the nightmare is over for them and they always shake his hand and thank him, teary-eyed, because they are in that place where even a stranger’s words mean everything to them.

Castiel is gratified, in every way possible.

            And he thinks it’s beautiful.

            _Meg understands,_ he thinks. _Meg understands exactly what it’s like._

            The M case had come up on their radar months ago, and they weren’t any closer to solving it. Meg, the American on a mission to see and live the world, had been his respite from the cold stress of that particular job. In her, he confided everything. And she helps too, throwing ideas in the wind and always asking how it’s going.

            Castiel smiles at the thought of seeing her now.

            He climbs the stairs to their apartment – _flat_ , he guesses, he’s still unaccustomed to the English lingo – drawing his keys out of his pocket as he goes. He imagines her smoky _“Good afternoon, angel,”,_ her playful smirk of greeting. How the sight of her will ease the nerves of his conversation with Balthazar.

            He opens the door.

ℵ

            Castiel remembers flashing lights, Balthazar’s face, and a barrage of questions. He thinks he answered them, but his tongue was thick in his mouth and he doesn’t quite recall anything he said. He’s everywhere. He’s nowhere. He’s in the in-between stages of decomposition, where there is still flesh clinging to the bone, but everything important has already crumbled.

ℵ

            _Missing,_ they say. But _missing_ means _chance she’s still alive,_ and Castiel remembers the amount of blood, how he felt like it was an ocean in which he could drown himself. He can’t seem to forget the smell. It’s stuck in the DNA structure of his cilia, ingrained, like he is rusting from the inside out.

ℵ

He winces the first time the needle goes into the fleshy part at the inside of his elbow. It forms a blister, and it burns, and it makes him vomit.

            He keeps trying.

            When he finally hits the vein and pushes down on the plunger, he nearly cries at the relief his body feels. It starts at the tips of his fingers and works its way through his system, tugging at him with a gentle touch, fills him until there is no room for curling dark hair and wild eyes.

            _No_ , he thinks, fading quickly. _No room at all._

ℵ

            He finds salvation in the tip of a needle. Day after day, he stretches and reaches his hands towards the sky. _Father_ , he thinks, _is this what was meant by Heaven in your holy books?_

            Then he doesn’t think at all.

ℵ

            He wakes in a hospital, and doesn’t remember falling asleep.

            There’s an IV hooked up to his arm, and he thinks, _that’s not right, it should be a syringe._ He wants to go back to that halfway place, where he was floating and the lights were soft and friendly, not cruel and demanding like these ones. This place is too white. Too clean.

            His heart rate is pumping rapidly. He hears it in his ears and he hears it in the beeps of the machine to his left, crunching out sounds like Morse code.

            “You’re having heart palpitations from your overdose,” a woman tells him. She is dressed in a white coat and it matches the wall behind her. “I’m going to give you two shots of Ativan. It’s a sedative, to reduce your heart rate and blood pressure. I need you to try to sit still for me, okay?”

            She injects him, but it’s not the right thing, and he struggles away from it. People come in and they hold him down, they’re yelling things but he can’t hear anything over the screaming of the machines and then he is gone, gone to the nothingness.

ℵ

            “You need help, Castiel,” Balthazar tells him, sitting by his hospital bed.

            Castiel doesn’t look at him. He looks straight ahead at those too-white walls. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself to.

            “Father’s sending you to a rehabilitation center in New York. He… we decided it’s best for you to be away from London, just for a while. And then when you’re better, you can come back.”

            Castiel stays silent. Balthazar stands slowly, like he is a puppet whose joints need oiling. “One more thing,” he says before he leaves. “Father has also arranged a sober companion for you, after your release. As a precaution. It’ll only be a short while.”

            Balthazar exits the room. Castiel is discharged from the hospital and sent on a plane across the Atlantic, accompanied by a severe-faced male nurse, who turns him in to the Hemdale Rehabilitation Center.

            So it begins.

ℵ

**Two Years Ago. New York City, New York.**

Dean shakes for days, after. He closes his doors to visitors and he turns his back on the world. If something makes its way to his hand, it’s thrown across the room. If something makes its way into his stomach, it’s thrown up in the bathroom.

            One night, he unlocks his door and follows the stairs down and out, to feel the heavy city breeze on his face. He finds a liquor store and slaps down crumpled bills on the counter, staring at the cashier wordlessly as she packages his bottles, shaking his head at her robotic _“Have a good evening, sir,”_ as if she hadn’t noticed the darkness under his eyes or the tight pull of his face, as if she didn’t know precisely what he was going to do with those bottles, where he was going to end up. She saw his entire future that night, he thinks.

            With every swallow, he swipes at the stark image of what he’d done from his mind. For a minute, he forgets.

            And it makes him euphoric.

ℵ

            He looks in the mirror one day, and sees his father.

            He starts avoiding mirrors.

ℵ

            John calls him, and Dean isn’t sure why he picks up, because talking to his father leaves a more bitter taste in his mouth than whiskey does.

            John’s drunk, too. It makes Dean laugh and take another gulp of whatever the fuck he’s poured into his glass this time. John says a few words that make him finish the bottle. Dean says nothing, which makes John curse and spit and howl.

            “You fuckin’ killed him,” John tells him. “You’re a goddamn fuckin’ murderer, and you fuckin’ killed him, it’s your _fuckin’_ fault, and – ”

And he sputters himself into a stupor, and it’s only when Dean hears the clatter of a dropped phone and John’s loud snoring that he whispers the words, “I know,” and hangs up.

ℵ

            He turns in his medical license. He rips his certificates to shreds and throws them down the trash chute in his apartment building.

ℵ

            He passes out in the bar bathroom one night, and the bartender stays after everyone else has left to mop him up. His name is Aaron.

            Dean asks him why he’s helping him, and Aaron’s answer is simple: “You’re stinking up my bar, man.”

            But his touch is gentle, and he makes Dean a coffee on the house and sits him down to wait out the syrupy ebb and flow of intoxication.

            “Rough night?” Aaron asks, wiping down the counters.

            Dean stares at the mug of coffee in his hands, watching the steam curling up from the black liquid. “You could say that. Hey, care to make this Irish?”

            Aaron scoffs. “Yeah, I’m not giving you any more liquor. You make this a regular thing?”

            “It’s kind of a general thing for me,” Dean answers, and he knows he’s speaking too directly and too loudly but there is still something fogging up his brain and he doesn’t particularly care. He shakes his mug. “One shot?”

            “Nope, I’m cutting you off.” Aaron finishes cleaning and throws the towel over his shoulder, crossing his arms across his chest. “Hey, man, you need some help?”

            “I’m upright, aren’t I?”

            “Barely.”

            “I’m fine,” Dean says, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

            Aaron insists on driving him home, and half-carries him up the stairs to Dean’s apartment. “Dean,” Aaron calls before Dean shuts the door. He hands Dean a business card. “AA holds a couple meetings there a week. You should check it out.”

            “I’m not an alcoholic,” Dean mumbles the words.

            Aaron clears his throat. “Yeah, either way. I don’t know what happened to you, but maybe they can get you to talk about it. Hell, who knows what’ll happen? Just give it a try. Promise you’ll give it a try.”

            Dean makes a drunken promise, a half-hearted “Yeah, sure, whatever,” but he wakes the next day with the feeling that his head has been crushed between two slabs of marble and he still remembers that promise and the business card is resting on his nightstand and, fuck it all, he picks up his phone and he dials.

            So it begins.

ℵ

            **Present.**

Castiel, Bobby, Charlie, Jo, Victor, Benny. They’re all gathered around the main table at the precinct, shooting ideas back and forth. It’s the next morning, the clock is ticking down, and Castiel is trying to stamp down the ball of panic curled up in his stomach.

            “You wanna try Crowley again?” Bobby suggests.

            Castiel grimaces. “I believe he told me all he knew that day.”

            “Well, maybe, but now we know about the connection to TyphoCorp and all that,” Jo puts in. “Maybe he knows something he doesn’t know is important. It’s worth a shot.”

            Bobby nods at that. “Fine. Jo, Cas, you guys go down to the detention center to talk to him. It ain’t an interrogation, remember. We’re tryin’ to make him like us enough to spill what he knows. Jo,” he adds, with a serious nod, “keep an eye on Cas, will you?”

            “I _am_ sitting right here.”

            “Good,” Bobby tells him shortly. “So you know not to put a toe out of line. You messed up, not tellin’ us what was really goin’ on. So go clean up your mess.”

ℵ

           

            Jo drives, because Castiel feels far too scatter-brained to do so himself. He presses his forehead against the coolness of the window, remembering the desperation in Dean’s voice, the warning in Meg’s.

            “Do you think she’ll kill him?”

            He speaks without thinking, and it takes him a few seconds to process that he’s said the words aloud.

            Jo glances at him. “I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet. “I really don’t.”

            Castiel’s insides are mush at this point. He feels exhausted but far too deliriously awake at the same time, as if every time he gets close to nodding off someone wraps a live wire around his heart and jolts him back to consciousness. “I don’t know what I would do if he…”

            He can’t finish the sentence. _Died_ seems too bland a word, too casual. It doesn’t truly encompass the depth of its meaning. It couldn’t possibly express the hole it leaves, the ache of it, pressing in from all sides.

            “Cas,” Jo begins, hesitantly, “what’s really going on between you two?”

            Castiel closes his eyes. “Have you ever been stargazing? There’s… there’s a beautiful place, not too far from here. It’s in Pennsylvania. It’s called Cherry Springs State Park. I went when I was very young, when I first arrived here, but I remember it so clearly. Looking up at the stars, it was like watching creation happen. And I suddenly felt so small, but so _big_ at the same time, like I was only just realizing what it is like to be alive after all those years.”

            He calls to mind the memory, how the stars had danced for him, how the intangible cloud of galaxy had spun steadily, like some sort of celestial clockwork. How he had felt this immense pressure from inside of his chest. “Right there, over my head, things were being pulled apart and shaped together and I couldn’t see it happen but somehow, I could _feel_ it happen. And that feeling is like being knocked breathless, or falling from a great height without anything below to catch you. It is terrifying and thrilling and it gave me such a sense of _freedom_ that in that moment, I felt like I had just been given a glimpse of something that no one was ever meant to see.”

            Jo grants him a few minutes of silence. Then, “And Dean?”

            Castiel tucks himself into the crook between the seat and the car door. He screws his eyes shut even tighter, because there’s an acrid burning to them now, and he’s at a loss as to what to do with it. “Dean reminds me of stargazing.”

ℵ

            The detention center feels more like a prison, with its straight-backed guards and a gray dampness to the walls. Jo and Castiel are ushered into a room devoid of any furniture apart from a steel table in the center of the floor and the chairs around it.

            They sit. They wait.

            It takes a few minutes for Crowley to come in. When he enters, he looks pallid and small in his dark teal jumpsuit.

            “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asks once he settles himself in the opposite chair.

            Jo cuts right to the chase. “What do you know about TyphoCorp?”

            “What, are you serious?” Crowley asks, looking back and forth between them. “Aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first, or are we getting straight to the naughty stuff?”

            Castiel lifts his chin. “We discovered who the real M is.”

            Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Do enlighten me.”

            Castiel pauses before answering, staring evenly across the table at Crowley. “What do you know about TyphoCorp?” he echoes slowly, deliberately.

            There’s a long quiet that stretches between them. The only noise that Castiel hears apart from the pounding in his ears is Jo’s steady breathing by his side. He focuses on that, on the balanced in-and-out of air flowing through her lungs. His own is too erratic to be of much comfort.

            At last, Crowley leans forward. He rubs the fingers of one hand against his palm, extending the other hand inquisitively. “What do you want to know?”

            “Anything you can give us,” Jo says.

            Crowley narrows his eyes. “It isn’t much. Things I researched on my own, picked up off the street. One thing I do know is that the bank account that wired me the money transfers went by a single username – Gaia.”

            “Does that mean anything to you?” Jo asks Castiel.

            “Yes,” Castiel murmurs. “Gaia was the personification of the Earth in Greek mythology. She was the mother of Typhon.”

            “Typhon, Typhoeus, Father of Monsters,” Crowley elaborates. “Biggest baddie of them all. Now, I had my suspicions, but as far as I knew, it was all coincidence. Searching up the corporation didn’t help much. There was just some info on sister companies, investors, you catch my drift.”

            Interest sparks in Jo’s eye. “Sister companies and investors could help us connect things a little better. Remember any names in particular?”

            “The majority of them are British companies. Minor ones, just starting up. There was one… Angelic? No. Angelus? Angelus Technologies, maybe?”

            A shock goes through Castiel’s entire body at that. _No,_ is his immediate thought, _no, first Meg and now you, is there anyone who will not betray me?_ His fingers clench down on the edge of the table, his knuckles going white with the strain.

            Jo puts a hand on his arm. “Cas? You okay? Is that important?”

            Castiel takes a shuddering breath, steeling himself to meet Jo’s eyes. He speaks through his teeth. “I know who we have to call.”


	14. Chapter 14

            “Cas, slow down. What the hell are you saying?”

            They are making their way out of the detention center, Jo on Castiel’s heels as they pound down the entrance steps.

            “I’m saying my brother may be involved with this. I need to speak with him before he – ”

            Jo grabs him by the arm and swings him around. “Slow. Down,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just think for a second, okay? Where’s your brother now?”

            “In London, I believe,” Castiel answers. “I haven’t spoken with him since our last altercation.”

            Jo nods, stepping back from him. “Get him on the phone.”

            They drive while Castiel listens to the tinny ringing on the other side of the line. He’s almost given up hope of Balthazar answering when there’s a quiet click. “Castiel?”

            “Balthazar,” Castiel says immediately. “I need to know if you’re involved with the company TyphoCorp.”

            “Uh,” Balthazar answers. “Yes? They’re an associate company of Angelus, why?”

            “Do you know the owner?”

            “I’ve never trafficked with them directly. Bit of a mystery character, I hear. The higher-ups never attend our meetings with them.”

            Castiel leans his head back against the headrest. He doesn’t know how to go about this without either outright accusing his brother of plotting to kill him or revealing too much.

            “Castiel, what’s going on?”

            “Some things have come up. I need to know if I can trust you.”

            Balthazar is silent for a moment. “I am not your enemy, Castiel. I never wanted this life for you.”

            They reach a red light, and Jo glances over at Castiel in concern. Castiel meets her gaze. _You okay?_ she mouths. Castiel does a half-hearted shrug, and Jo reaches a hand to wrap around his free wrist.

            She gives him a small, reassuring sort of smile, and Castiel doesn’t know what it is, but he feels strengthened by it. “Are you in the office?” he asks into the phone.

            “Actually,” Balthazar hesitates, “I’m still in Manhattan.”

            Castiel frowns. “What? Why?”

            “I might have been hoping you’d want to talk eventually,” Balthazar answers. “Shut up.”

            Castiel shakes his head, smiling softly.

            “Why are you asking about TyphoCorp?”

            “M owns the company.” Castiel grips the phone tightly in his hand. It heats up in his grasp. “And… M is – it’s Meg, Balthazar.”

            Balthazar is strangely, dangerously quiet. “What?” he whispers.

            “She – ” The thought of it makes Castiel’s veins run hot with anger and hurt. “She faked her death. It was her the whole time.”

            Castiel has deliberately tried not to think of it, to accept what it means. It’s a growing pressure on the glass surface of his skin, and cracks are starting to form. But he will not give into it. Not while Dean is still out there.

            “I’m sorry, Castiel.”

            Taking a deep breath, Castiel changes track. “We need to get into the TyphoCorp building. She’s taken Dean. She’s holding him there. Can you help?”

            Balthazar pauses. “I may have an idea. I’ll be down at the precinct soon.”

ℵ

“Why are you doing this, Meg?” Dean growls.

            Meg is sitting in Ellsworth’s old chair, her feet up on the desk and a magazine in her hands. She looks up, raising one fine eyebrow. “Shits and giggles.”

            “Hilarious.”

            Meg flips a page, the rustling of paper loud in the silence of the office. Dean isn’t sure any of the dogs are even breathing. “Why does anyone do anything? You’re a detective, or, y’know, whatever.”

            Dean breathes out sharply through his nose. “Hell, motives are everywhere. It ain’t exactly a science.”

            “Give it a shot.”

            Dean closes his eyes. “Love – that’s a no, you’re too coldhearted to feel love. Jealousy. Money – ”

            “Ding ding ding,” Meg sings mockingly, picking up a pen from the desk and twirling it around her fingers. “Life tip, Dean-o. People will pay for anything. All you have to do is develop a certain skillset.”

            “Murder isn’t really the kind of skillset I want to develop.”

            “And that’s why I run an internationally recognized business and you’re tied up on the floor,” Meg answers, smirking. “There are a lot of ways to get ahead in this world, and maybe you don’t think it’s pretty but everyone has to pay a price for getting what they want.” She shrugs.

            Dean opens his eyes, looking at Meg suspiciously. “Who’s paying you for the shit you pull?”

            In response, Meg shakes out the magazine and pulls it back up to her eyes.

ℵ

            Balthazar arrives at the precinct a few minutes later, followed by a brunette woman. They take their seats at the table, looking expectantly at the people already gathered there.

            “Who’s this?” Jo asks of the woman.

            “My name is Bela Talbot,” the woman answers. “I’m the CFO of Angelus Technologies, and I handle the transactions and most of the going-ons with TyphoCorp.” She smirks a little. “I’m important to this case, is what you need to know.”

            Balthazar dips his head. “Bela can get your people where they need to be.”

            “What makes you so sure we can trust her?” Victor asks.

            Bela fixes him with a cold smile. “Oh, don’t. Don’t ever trust anyone. Just rest assured knowing that these people have seriously pissed me off, and I don’t let anyone off easy.” She curls her delicately manicured nails into her palm. “I take back what people steal from me.”

            Balthazar grins. “Isn’t she lovely?”

            “Oh, yeah, a bucket of daisies,” Victor answers, still glaring skeptically at Bela.

            Ignoring them, Bela leans forward in her seat. “I have a plan, but it’ll only get you part of the way. You’ll have to do the rest. I can’t help you once you’re in the building.”

            “That’s fine,” Castiel says. “What’s your plan?”

            Bela’s smile widens. She reaches back and pulls a stack of papers out of her bag. “Here’s what you have to do.”

ℵ

            The plan is simple and easy in the same way that preparing a seven-course meal in thirty minutes is.

            TyphoCorp had been requesting a larger security squad ever since – they assume – Castiel had broken into the office guns blazing. Now, Bela says, Angelus would very generously respond to their offer.

            Charlie takes two identities from the obituaries for Benny and Victor and prints them new ID cards. Bobby looks at her with eyebrows raised when she announces she knows how to do it, and she shrugs as nonchalantly as she can at him.

            “I’ll be sending in two of our best men,” Bela says while on the phone with TyphoCorp. “One has a military background and the other has worked personal security before. Yes, of course, I’ll e-mail you their files right now.” Her fingers click over her phone. “Yes, Oliver Farwell and David Hartline, that’s them. When can they start?” She laughs conversationally. “So long as they’re paid, they’d show up tomorrow. Oh, perfect. No, thank _you_.”

            “What about me?” Jo asks when Bela hangs up, looking surly. “You’re not kicking me out of this one.”

            “Definitely not,” Bela tells her. “I got you a different job.”

ℵ

            You never realize how little time twenty-four hours is until the end of it comes with a deadline – literally, a _dead_ line.

            It’s three in the morning and Castiel is busy poring over the outlines of the plan. He’s so focused on the details that he doesn’t notice Charlie approaching until she takes the seat next to his.

            “Hey,” she says quietly. “You need to get some sleep.”

            “I can’t,” Castiel answers, and his voice shakes with exhaustion. “I need to be sure nothing will go wrong tomorrow.”

            “It _is_ tomorrow,” Charlie protests. “Listen, Dean’s gonna be depending on you. You need to be on your A-game, we all do. You can’t do that if you’re running on empty.”

            Castiel takes yet another drag of coffee, scratching at the stubble that is starting to grow on his jaw. “You sound like Dean.”

            “Good,” Charlie murmurs. “He’s pretty much the only one you listen to.”

            “Charlie,” Castiel sighs, “I can’t fail. Dean’s _life_ is at stake, and I don’t – I don’t know what would happen if – ” His throat closes suddenly.

            Charlie’s hand grips his arm. “That’s not gonna happen. Don’t think like that, because it’s not gonna happen. Just… try to sleep.”

            Castiel looks back down at the outline. “I keep feeling like something’s missing.”

            “You’re right,” a new voice comes from the door. Bela’s standing there, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. “Something _is_ missing.”

            “Huh,” Charlie says. “Any idea what that is?”

            “Motive,” Bela answers immediately. “We don’t know what this Meg character’s motive is.”

            “Is that important right now? We’re trying to keep Dean alive first.”

            Bela fixes her with a catlike sneer. “Motive is always important. Understand the enemy, understand how to take them down.”

            “Do you know what her motive could be?” Castiel asks.

            “As I said, I handled all interactions with TyphoCorp. I know how that company works.” Bela steps forward, settling herself in the chair on Castiel’s other side. “Angelus Technologies was working with TyphoCorp to carry out experiments in a developing new field. As Mr. Novak here knows, Angelus specializes in biotechnology. TyphoCorp specializes in pharmaceuticals.”

            “Biopharmaceutics,” Castiel says, furrowing his brows.

            Bela sends him an appreciative smile. “Correct. Our labs were collaborating in biopharmaceutical engineering.”

            “It’s too late – early – whatever – for this,” Charlie mutters, stealing Castiel’s coffee mug. “What does that mean?”

            “It’s the manufacturing of pharmaceutical drugs that are the product of biotechnology,” Castiel recites, like he’s reading from a textbook.

            “There was something shady about the way TyphoCorp’s people were handling the results. Drugs would be stolen, money would go missing… we thought they were bookkeeping errors at first. No one wanted to make a public announcement because we didn’t want a scandal on our hands. Our investors would’ve pulled out, and the TyphoCorp lawyers were talking about a holding company that would’ve dropped them.”

            Castiel’s head snaps up. “A holding company?”

            Bela nods. “A mystery to us all. They weren’t mentioned in any of our contracts. We don’t have a name.”

            Charlie narrows her eyes. “Do you think TyphoCorp was doing backdoor experiments with the technology you guys helped them make?”

            “I think there’s no such thing as coincidences.”

            Castiel shakes his head. “What were you developing with them?”

            “Synthetic drugs. Gene therapy.” Bela shrugs. “Anything to which we could apply both fields, we had testers getting started.”

            Charlie winces, wrapping both hands around the mug.

            “What about the deaths?” Castiel asks, thinking aloud. “TyphoCorp hired Crowley to murder nearly forty people. There has to be a reason for that.”

            “My guess?” Bela says, her lips thinning grimly. “Some people got too close to figuring out what was going on. Or they were used as access points for certain components that TyphoCorp needed and then killed to ensure their silence.”

            “Jeez,” Charlie says, looking ill. “Heartless.”

            Bela exhales slowly. “As long as everyone maintains their roles tomorrow, we should be fine. Angelus has given them no reason to doubt us.”

            “Don’t they know that the owner is my brother?” Castiel asks.

            Bela looks at him. “I believe that’s the reason Meg went after you in the first place, Castiel. She must’ve learned of you through Balthazar’s name and gone to see if you would pose a threat to her operation.” She hesitates. “And the tension between your family is public knowledge. She probably believes you’re not even in contact with Balthazar anymore.”

            Castiel huffs wryly, taking his coffee back from Charlie to finish it off. It’s darkly amusing to him, that the last two years of his spent first grieving over a woman who never cares for him and later battling with his own demons were for naught. “I was used.”

            “Well?” Bela says, a grin playing at the corners of her lips. “Here’s your chance to take your life back from her.”

ℵ

Benny and Victor sit side by side as they ride in the back of the truck, feet flat against the rumbling of the vehicle. They do not speak. They are building themselves up into steel.

            Benny draws strength from Victor’s resilience, and Victor from Benny’s empathy. They are here on a mission. Their friend is in danger, and they will fight for him. Whatever it takes.

            Victor remembers the day he’d received his badge. How, very suddenly, he’d felt a pressure on his shoulders, like Atlas was passing him the sky. As soon as he’d closed his fingers around the leather and metal mixture of it, a small burning stone had taken form at the center of his chest. He walked the city streets with a newfound sense of responsibility – _this is my city now,_ he’d thought that afternoon, _this is my city and I will not let it fall._

Dean and Castiel had upset the balance that Victor had tried so hard to find, both within himself and within the precinct that is more his home than the townhouse he shares with his roommate Calvin. It had been an uncomfortable feeling, that of unpredictability and chaos and _this is not the way we should work._

            But Victor is not made of stone. He is malleable. He can be bent, with some persuasion. And Dean and Castiel had shown him the importance of keeping what is important to you close by you, because everything is fleeting and everything can be taken away from you, should one try hard enough.

            Victor will not allow anything to be taken away from him. They, all of them, have suffered far too much loss. So he hardens himself in that bent position Dean and Castiel have made of him, and thinks the world might be a little skewed from where he stands now, but it’s all about perspective.

            Benny was a soldier. He knows the consequences of picking fights with the wrong people. He knows the horrors of war and the pain of watching people die in front of you, people you could’ve saved if only you’d been a second faster or a second braver.

            But he’s tired of burying friends. He’s sick of burning photographs and of sending sympathy cards and of having a fucking funeral suit set aside for whenever he needs it.

            He became a coroner so he could help put the minds of families at ease. So he could figure out what killed whom and help in whatever way he knew how. He tolerates draining bodies and cutting out their organs and tying toe tags on them because it makes him feel useful. Like he is uncovering a murderer’s secrets and contributing to their capture.

            He doesn’t stand at the front line anymore, but this is just like any other battle.

            And he won’t lose anyone this time.

ℵ

            Charlie parks the van around the corner from TyphoCorp. She climbs in the back, where her computers are set up, and begins to turn them all on. It honestly feels like a mini Batcave back here, sans the Batmobile and a particular caped suit.

            “This is like, really serious stuff, isn’t it?” Kevin asks from the passenger seat. Charlie had asked him to come along to help with all the tech stuff, and he’s still looking a little nauseous from the tale Charlie had spent the car ride telling – so maybe some details were grossly exaggerated, like maybe Meg doesn’t really have devil horns and maybe Castiel wasn’t gushing blood out of every pore when he and Dean had escaped their first TyphoCorp adventure, but he’d gotten the gist.

            The soft whirring of six computers starts up. “A friend of ours just got kidnapped by someone who’s probably a demon in disguise and is being held hostage under threat of _beheading._ Think Bucky Barnes and Red Skull.”

            Kevin makes a face. “Yeah, okay.” He joins her in the back and snaps a pair of headphones over his ears. “I’m just gonna close my eyes and pretend I’m playing Skyrim.”

            “Yeah, good call.”

ℵ

            Jo is pretty fucking pissed about being given the role of “ditzy office assistant” to some Ruby lady. She walks into TyphoCorp wearing a pantsuit and those weird secretary glasses that everyone in every business drama on TV seems to wear.

            “You’re Ashley?” A dark-haired woman, presumably Ruby, asks.

            Ashley. _Ashley?_

            “Yeah,” Jo answers. She tacks on a pearly white smile. “I mean, yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

            “I’m Ruby,” the woman introduces herself, reaching out to shake Jo’s hand. She looks pale and ill, and her palm is slick with sweat.

            “Are you okay, uh – ma’am?” Jo asks.

            Ruby takes a steadying breath before replying. “I suffered an injury to the back of the head a few days ago. That’s why my boss suggested I take on an assistant for the time being.”

            Jo tries her best to look concerned, she really does. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be in the hospital?”

            “No!” Ruby snaps immediately. “No. I’m fine. Come on, we have a lot of work to get done today.”

 _Fuck this,_ Jo thinks with each step of her brand-spanking-new “business casual pumps”.

ℵ

“Your dogs got names, Meg?” Dean asks, after another hour of silence. He really can’t take the silence. It’s driving him fucking nuts.

            Meg sighs, marking her page in what is probably her tenth magazine before closing it. “What do you want, Dean?”

            “Something to pass the time. Sudoku, maybe? You got last Sunday’s funnies? I wanna see what that old Marmaduke got up to this time.” He can’t hold back the sardonicism. This situation is one big ball of Messed-Up Shit.

            Meg grins. “You know, in another life, we could’ve gotten along.”

            Dean snorts. “Yeah, never happening, sister. Not in any life.”

            “Ah, don’t pretend you don’t see it,” Meg laughs. “We got a lot in common, Starsky. You’ve got darkness in you. You try to hide it, but I see it.” She inspects a nail. “Plus, we’ve both screwed the angel.”

            Dean thinks his heart maybe stops beating. “What?”

            Meg rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t insult me, Dean. You think I’d leave your house without putting in a couple of my little helpers on the way? Those were some interesting things the cameras picked up.”

            “ _Wow,_ ” Dean says, once he catches his breath. “I knew you were sick, but not _that_ – ”

            “Oh, relax, nobody _watched_ you. It just put things into a very clear – ” She taps her lip. “ – perspective. I knew you were close before, but now it’s biblical.” She laughs at her own little joke. “It’s biblical. Get it?”

            Dean is flushing red with outraged embarrassment. He decides to change the subject. “Why do you call him angel?”

            Meg smiles. “Isn’t he? He was practically divine, before he fell to the ruin that is humanity. This world is toxic for people like him.”

“No,” Dean answers with a cynical laugh. “ _You’re_ toxic for people like him. He’s good. Doesn’t matter what happened in the past.”

            “Good and evil are the most subjective terms that ever existed,” Meg argues calmly.

            “Are you seriously gonna sit there and tell me that having countless people killed for profit isn’t evil? Yeah, sorry, I’m not buying that.”

            “I’m not evil, Dean,” Meg says.

            “What the _fuck_ do you call it then?”

            Meg stands suddenly, knocking her magazine to the floor. Her eyes flash, the dogs tense, and Dean presses himself back against the column. She stands there without saying anything for a moment, chest heaving, and when she finally speaks, it is through acid-coated lips. “I’m _loyal._ ”

ℵ

            Benny and Victor climb out of the truck and are introduced to the head of security, some prick called Alistair.

            “We’re starting you out in the lobby,” he says in a nasally sort of voice that has Benny clenching his fists. He hands them their uniforms and guns. “You do good, maybe we’ll put you higher up. Impress me.”

            So they put on their uniforms. They clip their gun holsters to their belts and wrap their identifying armbands around their biceps. They take up their positions in the lobby. And they wait.

ℵ

            Jo excuses herself to go to the bathroom and tuck the near-microscopic headphone into her ear. She clicks it on, hopes for the best, and readies herself.

            She’s itching to kick some fascist ass.

ℵ

            Charlie and Kevin work to bypass the block on the TyphoCorp communication systems from within in the van. The server has a firewall to prevent unauthorized access from external signals, but Charlie manages to dismantle it without being detected.

            “You’re good at this,” Kevin says as she types in the last bit of code. “Should I be worried that you’re so good at this?”

            Charlie just smirks at him. “We’re in the network. Help me find the security feeds.”

            “Done.” Kevin points at the computer screen on the far right, which has just fragmented into smaller screens, each showing different angles of every floor.

            “Okay, one sec.” Charlie clicks around, and suddenly a green light on her headphones turns on. “Yes! We’re connected. Benny, Victor, Jo, do you read me?”

            “Victor and I read you.” Benny’s voice comes down the line, quiet in an effort to keep it secretive.

            “Here,” Jo whispers.

            “Alright, I’m gonna be directing you from here. Don’t blow your covers and don’t do anything until I tell you. I need to know what floors you guys are on.”

            “Lobby,” Victor mutters.

            “Fifty-seventh.”

            Charlie swivels around. “Kevin, isolate the security feeds on those floors. Keep an eye on our guys. Do you have any idea where Meg would be holding Dean?”

            “Top floor’s my guess,” Kevin answers, tapping away. The number of panels on the screen significantly decreases. “It’s always the top floor.”

            “That building’s seventy-three stories. Do we have visual on floor seventy-three?”

            Kevin types something in, then shakes his head. “The broadcast’s been cut. It’s nothing but static.”

            “Then that has to be where they are.” Charlie swears and turns her attention back to the microphone. “Okay, listen, guys. I can tell you what to do for now, but once you get to the top floor, you’re gonna have to improvise. Be careful in there.”

ℵ

            “Loyal to _who?_ ” Dean asks. “What is this, Nazi Germany? Who the fuck is making you kill people?”

            Meg looks angry with herself for saying anything at all. “No one _makes_ me do anything.”

            “Sure doesn’t sound that way,” Dean snorts. “What, so you’re a muppet? Who’s got their hand up your ass?”

            “Jackson!” Meg barks suddenly, making Dean jump. It takes him a second to realize she’s addressed one of the dogs.

            The man in question only blinks to show he’s heard her. It’s creepy and robotic as hell.

            “Show Dean your dagger.”

            So Jackson pulls his dagger from his belt and holds it out in front of him, balanced delicately on the meat of his palms. The blade is curved, gleaming in the white fluorescent lights of the office.

            “Do you know what kind of blade this is, Dean?” Meg asks slowly.

            Dean shifts, eyes glued to the dagger. “Uh, a sharp one?”

            Meg walks unhurriedly over to Jackson, plucking the dagger from his hands. She twirls it once and runs her fingers along the flat end. “It’s called a pesh-kabz. It was developed back in the 17th century, I believe, in Safavid Persia. Can you guess what it was used for?”

            Dean remains silent, and Meg tightens her grip around the ivory handle. “It was designed in a way that it could penetrate armor and chain mail. This reinforced tip here was used to – ” She makes a jabbing motion. “ – spread the links apart and let the rest of the blade in.”

            “It’s interesting,” she continues, now making her way to where Dean is sitting, “because while most blade designs from way back whenever were either for stabbing or slicing, this one can be used for both.” She crouches down by Dean. “You see how fine that edge is?”

            In one fluid motion, she brings her hand up to touch the blade to Dean’s neck. Dean stiffens at the sting of metal and he feels a single drop of blood trail down his skin. “Do you _feel_ it?”

            Meg takes the blade away, playing again with the thicker metal at the tip of the knife. “If this is able to get through a layer of chain mail, stick deep enough to slice a man’s lung and have him choke on his own blood until he slowly stops breathing and all the life is gone from him,” She laughs, a small, delicate laugh, “how easy do you think it would be to stab you in the heart?”

            She hands Jackson the dagger and picks her magazine up off the floor, dusting it off before settling back in the chair. “Food for thought.”

ℵ

            “Set up a perimeter around the building. One-block radius,” Bobby tells his lower city police precinct group equivalent of a SWAT team. Hey, it’s the funding issues. “Be on the lookout for any movement from the building. You kids gotta be ready for anything.”

            “All due respect,” A new addition to the crew, Tracy Bell, says, “but what exactly is going on here?”

            “You’ll do as you’re told, Bell.”

            “Yeah, I will. Soon as you tell me and these other guys what’s got all of you in such a knot.”

            Bobby stares her down, and Tracy stares down right back. Finally, Bobby caves. “One of our men is in there. We’re here to break him out. So if anyone gets out those doors that ain’t one of ours, you take them down.” He straightens his back. “These are dangerous people in there. Not your regular case.”

            Tracy looks at him a moment longer, then finishes fastening her Kevlar vest over her chest and grabs a pistol from the equipment table. “Got it, Boss. We’re ready.”

ℵ

Castiel should be shaking, but he’s still. He should be nervous, but all of his anxiety has drained away. He is cold, under everything. Resolved. No matter what happens, at least one person will walk away from this alive. And Castiel will make sure that it’s Dean.

            He waits alone in the conference room of the precinct, phone sitting on the table in front of him. He’s waiting for the call: _We’re all set up here. It’s your move now._ He stares at the phone and wills it to ring any moment, wills it never to ring.

            He hasn’t slept. He tried to, after Charlie and Bela left, he really did. It didn’t work. Every time he closed his eyes he was confronted with the image of Dean, stiff and lifeless, of Meg standing over his body with blood under her nails and a wicked grin on her face.

            He shivers, low in the center of his stomach. It’s a shiver that shakes through his body enough that the muscles in his back start to ache and something starts pounding at the back of his head. He’s turning to stone again, just as he had the day they’d captured Crowley, just as he had the day he’d started using drugs.

His eyes are dry. He is settled. Prepared.

            And then the phone rings.


	15. Chapter 15

            Bobby hangs up the phone after his call with Castiel and unclips the walkie-talkie from his belt. “He’s en route. Let the guys know.”

            “10-4,” Charlie’s voice crackles down the line. “Everything good on your end?”

            “As it’ll ever be,” Bobby answers.

            They disconnect. Bobby checks that each of the team members is in position and takes a seat in his truck to watch and wait.

ℵ

            “Cas is on the move,” Charlie says into her microphone. “Be ready. I’ll blip you when I see him pull up.”

            “Jo,” Kevin, who has been watching the security feeds, suddenly pitches in. “Ruby’s got some kind of concussion. Use that when you take her down. Move a lot, she’ll get disoriented.”

            Charlie squints at the screen. “How can you tell that?”

            “Look how she moves.” Kevin points at Ruby’s figure, taking slow, deliberate steps around her office. Behind her, at a secretary desk, Jo’s eyes track her movements as well. “She’s walked into things a couple times since I’ve been watching. And – ” He clicks, and the feed zooms in on Ruby. “She’s favoring her left arm. It’s a weak point.”

            “Look at you,” Charlie says, grinning at Kevin. “Where’d you learn all of that?”

            Kevin shrugs. “I watch the _Bourne_ movies.”

ℵ

            Balthazar drives Castiel to TyphoCorp. The ride is quiet, filled with the low hum of pop music and the steady rolling of tires on asphalt.

            Castiel feels himself sinking deeper into the seat with every second that goes by. There is something small and heavy, like a rock, at the bottom of his heart. A thickness is spreading in his veins, pumping him full of lead, and he might just fall right through the floor.

            “What are you thinking?” Balthazar asks, centuries later.

            Castiel has to lift himself up out of tar to respond. “This could go very wrongly.”

            Balthazar dips his chin. “Yes, it could. Remind me again why you’re going in alone?”

            “I won’t be alone.”

            “Right,” Balthazar amends, tapping his thumb impatiently on the steering wheel. “You have the Three Stooges in there to help you confront a mass murderer.”

            Castiel doesn’t even deign to answer that, and Balthazar exhales forcefully. “Castiel, you just be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. Basically just don’t do anything _you._ ”

            But then they’re pulling up to the building and Castiel is opening the car door and tucking his box of evidence under his arm and Balthazar’s worried face is hidden behind tinted windows and Manhattan traffic.

ℵ

            “He’s here. Get in position.”

ℵ

            The guards recognize Castiel as soon as he arrives. Two of them step forward, and behind them, Castiel sees Benny and Victor sidle up.

            The first guard takes out his radio and speaks into it while the second guard grabs the box from Castiel. “The detective has arrived.”

            “Awesome,” Meg’s familiar voice carries smugly through the room. “Bring him up.”

            The second that the radio disconnects, Benny and Victor strike, synchronized in their punches to the top of the spine that have the guards bowling over. Castiel lashes out, hitting one in the face and the other in the collarbone. Benny and Victor grab the guards and with knees to the chins, knock them both unconscious.

            The entire process lasts about five seconds. Benny, Victor, and Castiel all look at each other over the insensible bodies of the guards.

ℵ

            “Jo, you’re good to move.”

            Charlie’s words inspire a welcome, vicious righteousness in Jo. She stands from her desk and walks smoothly, purposefully, over to Ruby.

            “What do you want?” Ruby asks.

            “I just had a couple of questions about the company,” Jo says, remembering what Bela had told her that morning about TyphoCorp.

            Ruby pauses, flattening her hand over a stack of files. “Yes?”

            Jo grabs Ruby’s left wrist. She cries out, but Jo tightens her grip and pushes her up against the office wall. “What’s your holding company? Who are you working for?”

            Ruby starts to laugh. Jo shoves her again. “Answer me!”

            Still laughing, Ruby rolls her head back. “You work for that Castiel guy, don’t you?”

            “I don’t work for anyone, sister,” Jo smirks. Keeping one hand on Ruby, she leans down and unhooks a pistol from her calf holster, clicking off the safety. “And one thing they don’t tell you that’s super handy about these pantsuits,” she says, pushing the barrel gently under Ruby’s jaw, “is how great they are at concealing weapons.”

            Ruby’s eyes darken, but her smile remains fixed in place. “Are you always this witty, or was that a glitch in the system?”

            “I’m the one with the gun, sweetie.”

            Something seizes in Ruby’s face. She closes her eyes. “I don’t know what the name of the holding company is.”

            Jo’s hold eases slightly on the trigger. “But you know about it.”

            “We all do,” Ruby answers. “Meg’s the only one who knows anything more than that it exists, and that it exists for us to follow it.”

            Jo backs off slightly, though the gun is still pointed at Ruby. Ruby massages her throat, wincing as her fingers come away red. Her head’s meet and greet with the wall had opened her stitches. “What are they making you guys do?”

            Ruby meets Jo’s eyes bitterly. “Listen, I won’t pretend I haven’t had a hand in some of this shit. Actually, I’ve had a lot of hands in this shit. But I’m not like them. I wish I was, but I’m not. I didn’t – my dad brought me into this when I was a kid. And since then it’s been toeing the line between staying alive doing shitty things and getting killed for acting human. I thought if I got on their good side, acted like I was supposed to, they’d let me go eventually. But they just…” She swallows slowly, her eyelids fluttering. “It’s like they’re fucking empty.”

            Jo watches her, and watches how a line of blood streaks down from behind her ear to pool at her collarbone. She feels exhausted, and apprehensive, and as tense as a wind-up toy cranked until the gears start to grind. “Ruby,” Jo says hesitantly, and saying the name makes her wince. Saying the name makes this woman standing in front her real and solid, instead of another one of Meg’s goons. “Ruby, what are they making you guys do?”

            Instead of answering, Ruby points to her desk.

ℵ

            Dean’s stomach drops as soon as he hears Meg’s words.

            As if reading his thoughts, she grins at him once she disconnects from the radio. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

            Struck by a sudden, visceral hatred for this woman that sits in front of him, Dean lunges forward against his restraints. Immediately, the dogs’ hands fly to the hilts of their daggers. Dean is not deterred. He pulls his legs in close to his body, using his knees as leverage to stand. His arms are still awkwardly tied back around the column, but he pulls at those bonds as well, giving a guttural shout at the stinging bite of rope around his wrists.

            “Don’t you fucking touch him,” he snarls. “Don’t you _fucking_ touch him.”

            Meg stretches out a hand and signals for the dogs to stand down. She’s still smiling. “Stop trying to be the hero, Dean,” she says. “I keep my promises. You’ll go free, not a scratch on your pretty paint job.”

            “I don’t care!” Dean shouts. “Don’t fucking touch him, I’ll kill you, I swear to fucking God I will, you _fucking_ – ”

            “I’m gonna cut you off right there before you say something you really regret,” Meg interrupts, her eyes flashing dangerously. “He made a deal. He’s a big boy.”

            “You gave him an impossible choice!”

            Meg cocks her head. “Not that impossible for him, I think.”

            “Fuck you.”

            “Listen, this isn’t personal, Dean,” Meg says, rolling her eyes. “It’s business. I have a mess to clean up. Much as I hate to admit it, Castiel’s the only one with the skills to find me if I tried to drop off the grid again. So he has to go.”

            “Just like that,” Dean spits, disgusted.

            Meg blinks and smiles. “Now you’re getting it.”

ℵ

            Castiel crouches and lifts the box of evidence, repositioning the top that had been knocked crooked in the tussle.

            Benny puts a hand to his ear. “Charlie says three more are comin’ in from the east hallway. We don’t have time to move these guys out of the way.”

            “Blitz?” Victor asks, and Benny nods. Castiel shakes out his injured shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain, and jogs to the wall that opens onto the east hallway with Benny and Victor. He sets down the box.

            Victor presses something into Castiel’s hand – an earpiece. He quickly puts it in and clicks it on. Charlie’s voice immediately sparks in his ear. “Ten feet. Five feet. Go.”

            The three of them rush the guards that have just entered. Everything blurs, and it’s hard for Castiel to think anything beyond _elbow here, fist there_ , especially with Charlie shrieking direction in his ear.

            “Cas, on your left!” she says, and he whips around to face a guard charging toward him. He ducks the haphazard punch thrown at him and runs forward to knock the guard to the ground and pin him down. An ill-placed hit to the jaw sends a lance of pain up Castiel’s arm, but has its intended purpose: the guard’s eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp.

            When Castiel stands, he finds that Benny and Victor have taken care of the other two guards. They drag the three of them aside to rest against the wall.

            “Any more surprises, Charlie?” Victor spits through bloodied teeth.

            “None on your floor. Get to the elevators. Once you get to the top floor I’ll shut down the command system so no one else can call them. That also means you’re gonna be stuck up there, because rebooting it’s gonna take a while.”

            “Yeah, roger that,” Benny says.

            “Guys – the security feed’s knocked out on that floor. I’m not gonna be able to see you. So, uh, good luck.” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “Don’t die. And, Cas?”

            “Yes?”

            Charlie hesitates. “Just… don’t die.”

            Castiel doesn’t answer. He lifts the box of evidence and walks to the elevators.

ℵ

            “I’m a regional manager,” Ruby says. “Basically, I’m supposed to make sure everyone is doing their job. So I get… reports.”

            “About what’s going on in this company,” Jo supplies, following Ruby’s eye line to the desk.

            Ruby nods. “Budgets. Directives. An overview of progress made, it all goes through me.” She walks over to her desk, leery of how Jo’s hand is still on her gun. “We have a lab. I don’t know where it is, and the scientists’ names are redacted on every form they give me. I just get their data.”

            She unhooks a keychain from her belt, their metal surfaces clashing together harshly as she shakes out the one she’s looking for. Slowly, she slips the key into the lock of the bottom drawer and turns it until the tumblers click and the drawer springs open.

            It’s a large drawer, stocked to the brim with manila folders. From where she stands, Jo can see that the top one looks fairly new, but the files grow yellow the farther down she looks.

            Ruby strains to pull the stack from the drawer and drops them with a thump on top of the desk. She spreads them all out, handing the oldest-looking one to Jo.

            Jo grabs hold of the folder and flips it over. It’s labeled with a name: Daniel Grange. Her heart skips a beat.

            Jo did a lot of research on M both before and after the Crowley fiasco. She knows those files like the back of her hand, knows that information, all of the facts.

            That’s how she knows that Victoria Grange was M’s very first victim, and that Daniel, her brother, was listed as her next of kin. She remembers the details of the time they sat in the Roadhouse with the victim files. She remembers Dean saying, _“Victoria Grange, 27, killed October 4 th, 2005. Bristol, England. She was a mother of two and a sales rep for some car company.”_

ℵ

            Benny and Victor settle themselves back into their robotic guard-like positions so easily that it’s vaguely unsettling to Castiel. The elevator ride passes in silence, with Castiel’s grip on the box of evidence tightening with every increase in floor number.

            _This is too smooth,_ Castiel thinks. _It doesn’t feel like we’re moving._

But they are, and suddenly a harsh _ding_ drives a sledgehammer through the quiet, and the doors are sliding open onto the top floor.

            The first thing Castiel’s eyes find is Dean, standing tied up against one of the metal columns on the other side of the glass partition. The doors to Ellsworth’s office are wide open.

            Meg glances over. She looks like she was just in the middle of conversation with Dean. Her eyes fall upon Castiel’s face, then to the box, then back up to Castiel.

            She straightens. “Come to join the party?”

            Castiel doesn’t say anything at all. His eyes are still on Dean, who is staring at him with despair written on every inch of his face. “Cas, no,” he hears, whispered and feather-soft, and he almost wills himself into believing he never heard it. Almost.

            Meg beckons them into the office. Castiel immediately tenses when he sees the five men standing guard there.

            “Give me the box, Castiel,” Meg says, and Castiel hands it over obediently. She opens it, rifles through it, and looks up. “This is everything?”

            “Yes,” Castiel answers quietly. Dean is still staring at him. “Now let Dean go.”

ℵ

            “There was a second part to the deal, Castiel,” Meg says smoothly.

            This is where Dean feels like he just took a header out the office window. His arms jerk, pulling again at the ropes. He can’t speak, not around the solid ball of _something_ in his throat, and he thinks wildly over the thrumming of his heart that maybe he can gnaw himself free in the next two seconds before something terrible and awful and horrifying happens.

            “Release Dean first,” Castiel says calmly, way too calmly for the situation, and Dean wants to scream at him, tell him not to do this. Actually, there are a lot of things Dean wants to say, but he’s not ready to, the words choke up at the back of his tongue and let themselves loose in some semblance of a twisted, grating “ _No._ ”

            Something’s burning in his eyes. He’s flickering, somewhere between an office on the seventy-third story of a corporate building and a crowded white operating room. _It’s Sam all over again, I’m going to lose him, I can’t fucking do this without him, I can’t –_

            But just as he cannot speak, now he cannot even bear to think. His mind empties, as if someone’s cut the wires. Dean is no electrician. He is left holding the tattered ends of sparking cables and no idea what to do with them.

            There is blood on his hands, and all down his surgical gown.

            Meg has set down the box. She walks back over to Castiel, slowly, predatorily. “Castiel,” she says faux-disappointedly, “I don’t think you’re really in the position to be making demands.”

            “I did what you asked. I need to be sure you will carry out your part of the agreement.”

            Meg pouts. “You don’t trust me? After everything we’ve been through?”

            “I don’t trust you _because_ of what we’ve been through,” Castiel answers blandly. Dean watches as his hands slowly curl into fists. His thumb sweeps the length of his index finger.

            Meg clenches her jaw. She looks over her shoulder and signals to Jackson. “Cut him loose.”

            But Dean isn’t paying attention to the surly man who is now making his way over to him. His gaze has fastened on the faces of the guards standing behind Castiel.

            Benny catches his eye. Surreptitiously, without changing his expression, he winks.

            And everything comes alive.

ℵ

            “What the hell are they doing to these people?” Jo murmurs, almost to herself, rifling through Daniel’s folder.

            Ruby leans back on the desk. She pulls a Kleenex from a tissue box by her computer and presses it to the back of her head, wiping away the redness there. “It’s freaky, isn’t it?”

            “It’s like they’re not even _human_ anymore.”

            Ruby huffs. “Like watching a horse stand on two legs.”

            “No,” Jo corrects. There is a heavy sort of horror weighing in her chest now as she continues to read, and her stomach is rocking like it’s caught in a maelstrom. “It’s like watching a horse tear apart a lion with its teeth.”

            “What _is_ it?”

            A muscle jumps in Ruby’s jaw. She lowers the tissue, crumpling it up in one hand. With a sluggishly caustic smile, she says, “It’s the end of the world.”

ℵ

            Jo jabs at the elevator button, but it fails to light up. She presses it again. “Charlie?” she says. “Did you cut the power?”

            “Yeah, sorry about that, you’re gonna have to wait it out to come down.”

            “No!” Jo protests, hugging Daniel’s file to her chest. Ruby stands stoically to her right. “I need to get to the top floor. Are Benny and Victor there already?”

            “Yeah, but Jo, it’s too dangerous,” Charlie replies worriedly. “We don’t have visual up there and their mics have too much interference going on to hear anything. We can’t risk anyone else. Plus…” She lowers her voice, though Ruby can’t hear her anyway. “Are you sure you can trust her? She could be totally leading you on. Just stay put and keep an eye on her.” As if trying to lighten the mood, she gives a laugh that betrays her anxiety. “She’s wearing a pinstripe blazer. When has anything good ever come out of a pinstripe blazer?”

            Jo rakes a hand through her hair. “I need to get there. It’s important. I found this file, it – I’ll explain later. Listen, you see this file?” She whirls until she finds the nearest security camera and holds the folder up in its direction. “This is the game changer. If this whole thing ends up in the shitter and we don’t make it out of here, you find this file and you take this corporation down. I’m leaving it here.”

            There’s a pretentious fake ficus tree pushed up against an otherwise unimpressive corner. Jo tucks the file behind the pot, making sure it can’t be seen from other angles. She wishes she could erase the place from Ruby’s memory, but Ruby is staring off at some corner sullenly, and Jo doubts she’s even really paying attention.

            “Jo,” Charlie is saying. “Seriously, don’t go up there. We don’t know what’s going on.”

            “All due respect, Charlie,” Jo answers. She looks around, brushing off her hands. At the far end of the hall, she spots a door neatly labeled ‘stairs’. “But I’ve got people to save.”

ℵ

            Jackson makes it about three feet from Dean. Dean clenches his arms tight around the post and uses the grip as leverage, pulling both his legs up to his stomach and kicking out to catch Jackson in the chest.

            The breath leaves Jackson’s lungs in a loud rush. He wheezes, tripping over his feet as he falls backwards onto the floor. The sound makes Meg’s head snap around.

            Benny, Victor, and Castiel spring into action. Castiel immediately runs around behind Dean, pulling a pocketknife from his shoe and flicking it open. He saws through the ropes binding Dean. They fall away from Dean’s wrists, inspiring a sharp burning relief.

            Castiel grabs Dean’s forearm and turns Dean to face him. They don’t say anything to each other, but the look on Castiel’s face is enough for Dean. He gives a short nod and turns to help the others.

            Benny and Victor have engaged the other four dogs. Meg is looking around, wild, backing slowly away from the heat of the fight and into a corner. Benny moves almost casually, like a dancer, relying on the strength behind his strikes. Victor picks up a spindly chair and slams it across one of the dogs’ faces, splitting his cheek and sending him flying.

            One of the men pulls their dagger and heads for Benny. Dean sprints to intervene. He aims for one of the plush armchairs, crouching low and shoving it. His boots squeak on the floor as he rams it into the dog, knocking the dagger from his hand. Dean jumps onto the armchair and over, pushing the man to the ground and landing on top of him.

            Dean’s knuckles find his throat. The man chokes. He kicks out and slams his foot into Dean’s leg, making a raw flash of pain spike up his body. He manages to rake his nails down Dean’s arm as well before Dean is able to land a square punch to his jaw and knock him out.

            When Dean lifts his head, it’s at Castiel’s cry of pain. One of the dogs has his thumb digging into his shoulder wound, and Castiel looks dangerously close to going weak-kneed.

            Benny gets to Castiel before Dean can, grabbing the man’s wrist and bending it backwards until Dean hears a very audible crack. The man screams but lashes out with his other hand, catching Benny across the face. Benny wrestles him to the ground, kneeing him in the groin in the process. The man reflexively moves his hand to cover himself, and Benny takes the opportunity to slam his forehead into his nose. The dog’s nose makes an ugly noise and spurts blood, streaming red down either side of his face as he finally lies still.

            Castiel looks pale, sweat gathering at his temples. There’s a smear of crimson on his shoulder, where the man must’ve caught the stitches. Dean limps over to him, flinching every time his injured leg takes a step.

            “You okay?” Dean says, but his hands have barely landed on Castiel’s back when Castiel shoves him to the side, pulling them both out of the way of the last remaining man, who is running towards them.

            Dean throws his arm out in front of Castiel, confronting the man head-on when he turns and pulls out his knife. The man takes two steps and goes rigid, his head jerking forward. Then he drops. Victor stands behind him, one palm still outstretched in front of him.

            “Asshole,” Victor says mildly, wiping his hand off on his uniform.

            The four of them turn as one to face Meg. She’s against the wall, but holding a dagger that she must have lifted from one of the unconscious dogs’ bodies, and her expression is like steel. She has the box of evidence tucked under her arm.

            “You let me leave, I let you live,” she says, boldly confident, but her voice wavers slightly.

            Dean looks around. “Four against one, Meg. Not the best chances.”

            “You think they were my only dogs?” Meg spits. “Any one of my guys would go after you if I told them to. Look where you’re standing. I run this place.”

            “Not,” announces a new voice, “exactly.”

            Jo closes the stairway door behind her and Ruby, looking out of breath but triumphant. Dean opens his mouth to warn her about Ruby, a thrill of adrenaline spiking through his body, but she catches his eye and shakes her head. She crosses her arms and walks over to stand in front of Dean.

            Meg’s lip twitches. Her eyes dart over to Ruby. “Ruby. Should’ve guessed.”

            Ruby straightens at that, narrowing her eyes. “You want to come over and say that to my face, Meg?”

            Jo smiles knowingly. “We know you’re owned by a holding company, Meg. We know they’re paying you. And now, thanks to my new best friend,” She taps her temple, “I know what for.”

            “Well, don’t leave us hangin’, Jo,” Benny prompts.

            “The backdoor experiments you guys thought TyphoCorp was using Angelus for,” Jo tells Castiel. “You were right. They were running illegal human trials.”

            Meg bares her teeth. “I’d shut up if I were you.”

            “Yeah?” Jo bristles. “You gonna make me?”

            “Just might.”

            Ruby steps forward, drawing the attention to her. She remains stone cold silent for a moment, watching Meg calculatingly. There’s the barest hint of a smile at her mouth. “DMN-6. A virus. They were playing around with its synthetic sequence, changing it, making it… grow. Angelus had the technology to genetically engineer the virus to do what TyphoCorp wanted it to do without knowing. TyphoCorp had the – ” She hesitates. “ – _test subjects._ ”

            A pause. “What the _fuck_ ,” Victor says.

            “What was the virus made for, Meg?” Jo asks. “Biological warfare? Terrorism? What kind of stunt are you trying to pull?”

            Meg lifts her chin, refusing to break eye contact with Jo. “Back off, Little Bo Peep,” She speaks through her teeth. “You’re playing with fire.”

            “I’m not the one getting burned here,” Jo answers calmly. “Tell us about DMN-6.”

            “You’re not helping your case by resisting, Meg,” Castiel says. Dean glances at him in surprise. He regards Meg with the coolness that would exist between strangers.

            Meg’s face makes an expression somewhere between a smirk and a flinch. “Fuck you. I don’t have to explain myself to you. That’s bullshit. You think you can just waltz in here and expect me to give a fuck what you have to say? Nah, don’t kid yourself, bozo. I’m out.”

            She takes a step, dagger still extended, but Ruby is faster. She grabs Meg’s wrist and forces her hand downward and back, slamming both their hands into Meg’s sternum. Meg gasps and drops the dagger, curling into herself with the force of Ruby’s attack.

            “I’d tell you to get your head out of your ass,” Ruby says simply, “but I think that’s pretty much a lost cause by now.”

            Jo crouches down so she’s face to face with Meg. “You think we’d really let you get away that easy? Yeah, not this time.” She’s half-smiling, a little incredulous and a little condescending. “ _Gotcha._ ”

ℵ

            Charlie starts rebooting the elevator system for them, practically in tears when she hears them say the all clear. “You fucking dicks,” she sniffs. “I fucking hate all of you.”

            Benny and Victor are standing guard in front of Meg. Jo is going through the drawers in Ellsworth’s desk, searching for more evidence of the DMN-6 virus than the folder she’d found in Ruby’s office. Ruby is helping her.

            Castiel is sitting against the wall, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. Dean slides down next to him, scowling when his bruised shin yelps in protest.

            It is Castiel who first speaks. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

            The sentiment is so ridiculous that Dean almost chokes out a laugh. “Yeah. Me too, Cas. About you, I mean.”

            “I was – afraid that she wouldn’t honor the agreement,” Castiel continues, stumbling over his words. “That you would be gone before I ever got the chance to make you safe.”

            “Hey,” Dean murmurs, and he reaches out to gently take Castiel’s hand. It’s not the first time he’s ever done so, but it feels like the first time that it actually means something. Here, now, surrounded by five prostrate bodies. Dean can’t say they were never ones for romance. “I – I thought you were gonna give yourself up. For me.”

            Castiel mulls his words over in his mouth before he answers. “I was going to. If the plan hadn’t worked, I would have.”

            “Cas – ” Dean starts, but Castiel is shaking his head and tightening his grip on Dean’s hand.

            “If you’re planning on saying anything other than ‘thank you’, I would suggest you not say anything at all.” There’s a tinge of dry teasing to his voice.

            Dean huffs a little in amazement. “You’re crazy. Something about this building makes you crazy.”

            Castiel sobers. Just enough to be noticeable, he presses closer to Dean. He closes his eyes again briefly, relishing the warmth and stability of the man by his side. “It’s not the building,” he says, so quietly the Dean has to tilt his head to catch his words. “It’s you. You make me reckless, and foolhardy, and uncaring of consequence.”

            Dean shivers at that. Castiel wonders how much of it is from the cold. “But,” he adds, because he can see the little crease forming between Dean’s eyes, “you teach me steadiness, and steadiness can turn recklessness, foolhardiness, it turns all of that into strength. You make me strong. You make me better.”

            “Cas,” Dean says weakly. He doesn’t say anything more, though his hold on Castiel’s hand tightens.

            Castiel wants to kiss him then, kiss that star-struck look right off his face. He wants to kiss him so much that the burning of it in his chest is getting a bit distressing. He expects the smoke alarms to go off any moment.

            “The system should be back up.” Charlie says suddenly into their ears. Her words fracture whatever fragile thing had fallen between Dean and Castiel. They shake themselves, blinking themselves out of their stupor. “We’ll wait for you down here.”

ℵ

            They leave the dogs on the floor, piling into the elevator. Benny produces a pair of handcuffs from his uniform, reading Meg her Miranda rights as the doors close and snapping the metal links around her wrists.

            “I have to make a stop,” Jo says, clicking the button labeled ‘57’. She exits and returns with a file, and they finally make their descent to the lobby.

            Dean steps into the sunlight with the feeling of being reborn. It feels like decades have passed since he was taken, and he’s itching to stretch his legs.

            Bobby greets him upon exit, shaking his hand and giving him a rough hug.

            “Anyway,” Bobby says when they pull apart, clearing his throat. “Team, secure the building.”

            “Yeah, we’ve left like ten guys unconscious in there,” Dean tells him casually. “Probably want to cuff the ones on the top floor.”

            Bobby stares at him. “Right. ‘Course you did. Thanks, Jackie Chan.”

            Before Meg is herded into the back of a police car, Dean catches up with her. “I hope you prepared for this,” he says coolly. “You’ve threatened and pissed off a bunch of people. Once they hear you’re in chains, you think they’ll come forward? How many witnesses do you think are gonna testify against you now that you can’t cross them off your list?”

            Meg has a touch of a grin on her lips. “You’re still not getting it, Dean-o. It’s never over, not for these guys. I told you all to leave me alone, and you didn’t listen. What’s that saying? Let sleeping dogs lie?” She leans in close, and Dean swears he sees a flicker of something _other_ in her eyes. “Well, you just kicked them in the fucking face.”

            And then she’s pushed into the police car and the door is closed and they are driving away, but Dean can’t shake the feeling that she’s left him there with her precious Persian dagger sticking right out of his chest.


	16. Epilogue

            “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

            Dean’s standing at the door to the room, watching as Castiel compares two ties side by side. Castiel jumps, not having heard Dean approach, and turns guiltily. A corner of his mouth twitches.

            “Yes, I do.”

            Crossing his arms, Dean leans against the frame. “No, you don’t. They have all the files, all the evidence. They don’t need your testimony. You don’t have to go up there.”

            Castiel selects a blue tie, making a lumpy knot around his neck. He swallows visibly. “I need to see. I need to see what happens.”

            “Listen,” Dean says, gently. He knows how much this means to him. But Castiel has also been through too much already. Neither of them have seen Meg since TyphoCorp, three months earlier. Castiel has only just started to normalize. Dean doesn’t want to see him go through the same thing all over again.

            He steps forward, nudging Castiel’s chin so he’ll look at him. “Meg’s going away.”

            “You don’t know that,” Castiel frets.

            “Yeah, I do. They can’t get her for the murders since Crowley fessed up to those, but they’ll get her on the human experiments, kidnapping, attempted murder… Cas, she was running a straight-up Darth Maul out of her basement. Half her employees are turning against her for a better sentence. There’s no way they’re letting her go.”

            Dean undoes the knot on Castiel’s tie, handing it to Castiel once he slides it off. “Today’s a good day. Enjoy it.”

            Castiel stares down at the tie around which his fingers are locked, and slowly pries off his grip. “Alright,” he says at last. He drops the tie back on his bed.

ℵ

            “It’s been a rush trial,” Benny says. “There’s so much press, they don’t want the public to lose interest. Fuckin’ vultures.”

            Dean swirls his coffee around. “Yeah, well, I’m not complaining. Sooner we can get her behind bars, sooner we can forget about all of this.”

            “Sooner Castiel can sleep better at night?” Benny asks knowingly. Dean casts him a sharp glance. “What? I never said I was a genius, but doesn’t take one to see that this ain’t going over well on him.”

            “Yeah, like anyone can blame him,” Dean mutters, staring at the bottom of his cup. “It’s been kind of a rough ride.”

            Benny doesn’t say anything for a while. He nudges Dean’s leg, which hangs down from his perch on one of Benny’s office’s counters. Dean shifts, and Benny stoops to put away the blades he’s just finished sanitizing. “How is he?” he asks at last.

            Dean exhales, blowing up his cheeks. “How you’d expect. Nightmares. He’s jumpy. The whole nine.”

            “The wonders of PTSD,” Benny says drily.

            “Yeah, it’s a blast,” Dean responds, but it’s a second too late and a fraction too off-kilter, and Benny looks at him shrewdly.

            “How are _you_ doin’?”

            Dean meets Benny’s eyes and looks away just as quickly. “I’m fine. Cas is the one I’m worried about.”

            “Well, that much is obvious,” Benny snorts. “But you gotta worry about yourself too sometimes. Is this about Sam?”

            Dean shrugs.

            Benny looks at him skeptically. “Dean.”

            “What?” Dean throws his empty cup in the trash from where he sits, leaning back in satisfaction when he hears it thud into the plastic bin. “I’m fine.”

            “Listen, Dean, I don’t claim to be a priest, but maybe a little confession will ease that troubled mind.”

            Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Benny. You gonna be the next Dr. Phil?”

            “ _Dean,_ ” Benny says again.

            “What do you want me to say, man? Meg’s gonna get locked away, fine, that’s awesome, but my brother’s still dead.” Dean’s voice shakes. Two bright splotches of red appear at the tops of his cheeks. “Really dead. I don’t – I don’t get _closure_ or whatever.”

            Benny eyes him for a while. Finally, he says, “You should talk to him.”

            “Who – Cas? No, I’m not bringing him down with me. He’s got enough on his plate.”

            “Not Cas,” Benny clarifies, clearing his throat. “Sam.”

            Dean stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

            “Dean – ”

            “Sam’s _dead,_ Benny. I _can’t_ talk to him, and God knows that I – I wish I could, but I can’t, and that’s a fucking sick thing to say, and – ”

            “Dean, calm down.” Benny doesn’t move and his expression doesn’t change. He’s still solemn-faced and serious, which makes no sense, because the past twenty seconds just sounded to Dean like a huge cosmic joke. “Just listen, okay? It helps. It does. When Andrea – when she passed, I’d just talk to her headstone. Tell her about my day. About how much I missed her. Just whatever’s on your mind. Or maybe make amends.”

            “Yeah, this was a bad idea.” Dean hops down from the counter abruptly, heading for the door. “Thanks for nothing, Benny.”

            Benny just laughs softly and shakes his head. “Talk to him, Dean. You’ll see.”

            “ _Bye_ , Benny.”

ℵ

            It takes Dean three hours of hectic pacing to decide that maybe Benny’s idea is worth a shot. Castiel hovers anxiously at his shoulder. They feed off each other’s tension.

            “Would you like me to come with you?” Castiel murmurs, plucking at Dean’s sleeve.

            Dean meets his eyes.

            Three months.

            It’s been three months since the incident at TyphoCorp. Three months since Meg was arrested, three months since Dean and Cas sat, broken and bleeding, on the seventy-third story of a building and held hands. Those three months have passed both sluggishly and much too quickly. They’re still struggling with the aftermath. Drowning in it, really.

            Castiel wakes most nights in a cold sweat, grabbing for Dean’s hand under the covers. Dean has grown accustomed to the routine of wrapping his arms around Castiel, sometimes humming a melody, sometimes staying silent, until Castiel falls back into fitful rest. Sometimes Castiel scrabbles at his left arm, at the pinpricks there, and Dean captures his fingers and brings them to his lips.

            They avoid the liquor aisle when they go grocery shopping. Dean still doesn’t trust himself around so many bottles, and Castiel had lost his taste for it all those months ago when he stumbled home drunk on boxed vodka.

            In the brownstone, however, during the day, things are different. They’re lighter. Castiel makes coffee in the morning, and Dean kisses the blush off his face when he burns it. Dean leaves his shoes in the living room and Castiel puts them on his side of their bed in retaliation. Castiel has started painting again, the first time Dean has seen him do so since their very first meeting, and Dean spends hours trying to scrub the turpentine out of Castiel’ clothes.

            Three months.

            Dean catches Castiel’s hand and turns it over, tracing the lines of his palm. He leans in, pressing his lips to Castiel’s in a warm, gentle kiss. Castiel sighs into it, smiling despite his tired eyes. “Thanks,” Dean says in a quiet voice.

            They take Dean’s car, fingers locked over the center console. Castiel has a plastic Tupperware container with scissored-in holes in the lid in his lap. Sweat is gathering at the dips in Dean’s back with every mile that passes, but Castiel’s thumb runs over the meat of his hand and it grounds him.

            Dean parks nervously. He would’ve hit the car in front of them if not for Castiel’s murmured, “Dean.” He shuts off the engine, and in the silence that follows, his heart beats almost loud enough to replace that familiar growl.

            “I’m good,” Dean tells Castiel, though they both know it’s a lie. “Let’s just get this over with.”

            They walk together past headstones, old and new, worn concrete and shining marble. Their steps are slow. Castiel is patient with him, though he squints against the early summer sun. He checks the time once, but just as Dean is about to apologize for this escapade taking so long, Castiel says, “The trial just began.”

            They don’t say anything more. Castiel grips the Tupperware container tighter.

            Dean sits next to the grave. The idea of standing or sitting on top of it is revolting to him. Castiel takes a path-side bench, far enough away that he won’t hear whatever private things Dean wants to say, but close enough that Dean is comforted by his presence.

            It takes him several aborted starts to actually speak coherently. He coughs past the tar in his throat.

            “Sam,” he begins. He pictures Sam’s face looking at him expectantly, the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. He pauses. He doesn’t know what to say. “It’s been a while. That’s pretty shitty of me. You know, in my defense, I’ve been kinda busy.” He leans his head back against the headstone. “Guess what, Sammy? I saved the city while you were gone. Serves you right for sleepin’ in.”

            His heart pounds once, hard, and Dean puts a hand to his ribs. “Almost died along the way, but those always make the best movies, so I ain’t complaining.”

            He closes his eyes, aching in the silence. Sam’s face in his mind’s eye blinks, looking sympathetic. After a few minutes, “How is it up there?”

            Then, “I know I never believed in any of that, just wasn’t in the cards for me, but for your sake, I hope there’s a heaven, and a God, and a whole fleet of angels playing harps for your sorry ass.”

            Then, “Is Mom up there with you? She keeping you in line?”

            Then, “Tell her I miss her. And, yeah, I miss you too. Whatever. Don’t make a big thing out of it.”

            Dean doesn’t know what it is, the cathartic release of words or the tiny, sneaking hope that maybe Sam is actually listening somewhere, but Dean feels the weight ease off his chest. For the first time in too long, his lungs expand fully when he breathes. His eyes clear. He gestures in the air. He talks and talks – tells Sam about everything that has happened, about Alexandria Grahame, about signing on with the police department, about M.

            “Something else you should probably know, Sam,” Dean says, speaking easier now. His eyes fall on Castiel, who is examining the flowers by the side of the bench. “I’m with someone. Yeah, really. It’s been a rough couple of months, but I’ve never been the kind of guy to do stuff the easy way.” He laughs wryly. “He’s a good guy, Sam. You’d like him. And it looks like he actually likes me back, which, you know, but it’s… he’s good. He’s way more than good.”

            Dean turns his head, allowing the cool marble of the headstone to chase away the heat of the day. “But he drives a Prius. It might be a dealbreaker. I’ll let you know.”

            Finally, he stands. He stretches his stiff legs and back. Castiel looks at him, and Dean gestures for him to approach.

            Castiel hands him the Tupperware container.

            “Got you a friend, Sammy,” Dean whispers, opening the container and gently pushing Sam the ladybug onto his finger. “This little guy’s been there through everything, bet he has some stories that I haven’t told you yet.”

            He extends his finger onto the top of the headstone, but Sam the ladybug seems reluctant to part with it. At last he makes it onto the marble.

            “Make a wish,” Dean tells both Castiel and Sam. “He’s lucky, you know.”

            Sam the ladybug opens that bright red elytra and extends his wings. They catch the breeze that dances by and he lifts, sailing around Dean and Castiel once before rising, rising so high that they lose him against the glare of the sun and he dissipates into the blue.

ℵ

            The view is better from the brownstone than it had been from his apartment, Dean thinks, and is relieved that he’d been able to sell it at last the week before. They fall asleep locked around each other, floating in the early afternoon sun streaming through their window.

            When they rouse, it’s to a loud knocking on the door. Dean opens it to a fleet of people rushing in. Charlie finds him first, wrapping her arms around him so tightly that Dean starts seeing spots.

            “Charlie,” Dean wheezes, trying to pry off her viselike grip from his waist. “Hey, what’s going on, are you okay?”

            She doesn’t answer – or rather, she tries to, but the front of Dean’s shirt is getting wet with her tears and the words come out muffled against fabric. Dean lifts his head to the others gathered in the foyer – Jo, Victor, Benny, Balthazar, Bobby, even Kevin.

            Jo has her hand over her heart. Her eyes are shining with tears, and as Castiel appears behind Dean, her gaze locks on him.

            “What happened?” Castiel asks, looking absolutely petrified. He goes white and leans against Dean for support.

            Finally, Benny pushes his way to the front. He grabs at Castiel’s arm, misty-eyed and voice wobbling. “We won, brother.”

            Castiel gives the smallest huff of air. “What?”

            The tension breaks. Tongues unstick from the roofs of mouths and everyone begins to speak, shouting over each other to be heard, each giving their play-by-play of the trial, but Castiel looks as though he’s not even listening. He still looks shocked, and when Dean takes his hand, it is shaking. “We won?” he keeps echoing faintly. “She’s gone?”

            Faces break into weepy smiles and Dean’s heart could break. “She’s gone, Cas,” he whispers. “We won.”

            Life floods Castiel’s face. His eyes brighten, and he grins. He gives a laugh like the first one Dean ever heard from him, years and decades and lifetimes ago. “We _won,_ ” he says like the words are a prayer, and he kisses Dean right then and there.

            A cheer, mostly led by Charlie and Benny, rises from the rest of the group.

            Dean presses his forehead to Castiel’s when they part, an indescribable feeling running rampant through his chest.

            “It’s over, Dean. It’s really over.”

            Dean’s smile widens. He turns to the group. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he says. “We gonna celebrate or what?”

ℵ

            “So, how’d it go?” is the first thing Dean asks once they’ve all gotten settled. “Was it like, the smackdown of the century? Did you get a picture of her face?”

            Castiel laughs, loud and exuberant. “Dean,” he chastises gently, pressing surreptitiously into his side.

            “It’s for posterity, Cas,” Dean answers. “Let me have this.”

            “It actually wasn’t as dramatic as you’d think,” Charlie puts in.

            Jo fixes her with an amused smirk. “You started cheering when the jury delivered the verdict. They almost had to escort you out of the courtroom.”

            Charlie waves a hand. “Details.”

            Benny, who is rifling through the brownstone’s freezer for some burger patties to heat up, lifts his head out of the cold. “The media was on her like a starving dog on a dry bone. I’d bet my left thumb they got a decent picture or two. Check the paper tomorrow.”

            “Check the Internet _today,_ ” Kevin corrects, tapping out something onto his phone. He shows the screen to Dean and Castiel, where the headline “Masters Trial Comes to a Head” is spelled out in large bold letters. There’s a picture of Meg under the words, decked out in prison orange and looking distinctly harassed. “You’re too old-school, Benny.”

            Benny waves a fork threateningly at him. “Watch your back, kid.”

            “Sentencing is set for a week from now. But that prosecutor, Naomi, she kicked the shit out of the case. It’s gonna boil down to life sentence on life sentence on life sentence,” Charlie reassures.

            “There’s a video,” Kevin says. “This ought to be good.”

            It was taken after the verdict delivery. There’s loud bustling in the courtroom, and Meg is being escorted to the back by the bailiff. The media representative had jumped at the chance to talk to Meg, which Dean thinks is probably all kinds of illegal, by the way the bailiff is staring mutiny at the camera. “Masters – _Masters!_ ” The voice erupts, tinny and shrill, through the phone’s speakers. “Do you have anything to say, anything at all? How do you feel about the verdict? What are you going to do?”

            “Fuckin’ vultures,” Benny mutters, echoing his earlier statement.

            But Dean isn’t paying attention. Castiel’s hand has slid into his, and it’s cold and clammy. Sweat is curling the hair at his temple. Meg has just fixed the camera with a single dark-eyed look, a chilling stare that has even the reporter’s voice stuttering slightly. “What am I going to do?” she asks, and Dean feels Castiel tense up all over by his side. “I,” she continues, sounding positively ecstatic, “I will ascend to heaven. Above the stars of God I will set my throne on high. I will sit on the mount of assembly in the far reaches of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds.”

            She leans in close to the camera, though the bailiff is wrenching at her arm. She smiles like she knows something the rest of the world is too slow to catch. “I will make myself like the Most High.”

            The video ends.

ℵ

            “What the fuck,” Jo says, most eloquently.

            “She’s just trying to scare people,” Charlie infers, though her voice sounds strangled. “Right?”

            Castiel’s heart is pounding in his ears. Dean is looking at him, whispering softly, wondering if he’s okay, but he can’t answer.

            “Does that mean anything to anyone?” Victor asks.

            Slowly, Castiel’s teeth unstick. He opens his mouth. “It’s scripture. Isaiah 14:13-14. It references the promise that Lucifer made, his boast about what he planned to do. His ultimate goal.”

            Dean glances around nervously. “Well, that has to be bullshit, right? Charlie’s right, she’s just trying to scare people.”

            “Did she mention anything in her testimony about TyphoCorp’s holding company?” Castiel asks quietly.

            Bobby shakes his head. “Not a peep.”

            “What if this was her way of – ”

            “Come on, Novak,” Victor interrupts. “You can’t seriously be thinking that the damn holding company’s being run by _Satan._ ”

            “Not – of course not, but someone with the same ideals,” Castiel is speaking quickly, losing focus, stumbling over his words. “DMN-6… it _changed_ people, it made them into monsters. What if the holding company’s plan was to build an army of these creatures? To use them in some way. Crowley’s victims, they were all family members, friends of those that were experimented upon. We haven’t been able to find the actual test subjects, what if – ” He takes a deep, rattling breath. “What if he’s training them for something?”

            Dean’s knuckles are white. They’re grabbing onto each other with all the strength they’ve got left and they’re spinning like a broken compass, directionless, lost, left adrift at sea.

            “Then that means…”

            “It means he’s starting a war,” Dean says. “And we’re lined up nice and pretty for the firing squad.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. I can't believe it's actually over. When I first signed up for this, I never imagined the rollercoaster I was buckling myself into or the lengths I would go to in order to ensure that this project would come to fruition. I'm (not) going to miss the sleepless nights and frantic planning.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> I did my best to research as thoroughly as I could. All of the information presented in the story is accurate as far as I could find. I did take some liberties with the trial stuff - I do realize that (especially with felonies) trials can take up to several years to be resolved, but I shortened it because the timeline wouldn't work well otherwise. Suspend your disbelief, please. Also, I don't hate Sam, I swear! I'm deeply sore about having to write him in as having passed away. Sorry about that, truly. 
> 
> And a couple of heartfelt thank yous! To Riley (caswitch on tumblr) and Rachelle (kurtvonngt) for being super great betas/idea givers/soccer moms and supporting me through all of my mild panic attacks. To Claire (microcomets) and Nhixxie (astrasperas) for letting me leech off their writing expertise and inspiring amounts of talent. And of course to my artist Crystal (weasleysangel on livejournal) for being such a good sport about title changes/scene changes and for lending her talent to my admittedly less than worthy work.
> 
> What a wild ride! Hope you guys (that stuck it through to the end) enjoyed.


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